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SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 
AND HIS FRIENDS 



































“ ‘Pull Dat Rabbit 


Boy’s Toof-Toof-Toof ?’ ” 


l Page 179 ] 




f&gr " ' ’ - ■ ' 

I Sonny Bunny Rabbit 
and His Friends 


i 


By 

Grace MacGowan Cooke 

AUTHOR OF “son RILEY RABBIT AND LITTLE GIRL,” 
“THE DOINGS OF THE DOLLIVERS,” 

“A GOURD FIDDLE, ” ETC. 

With Cover and Eight Illustrations in Color , by 

Culrner Barnes 









New York 

Frederick A. Stokes Company 

Publishers 



Copyright, 1915, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 


Copyright, 1906, by 
The Century Company 

Copyright, 1906, 1907, 1909, 1910, by 
The Butterick Publishing Company 

Copyright, 1907, 1908, 1909, by 
The Crowell Publishing Company 


All rights reserved 



September , 1Q15 



SEP -3 1915 

©CI.A410313 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I How Sonny Bunny Rabbit Learned to 

Dance i 

II The Deer that Tried to Please Every- 
body 9 

III The Owl’s Lunch 17 

IV The Foolish Peacock 23 

V How the Coon Got the Rings on His 

Tail 29 

VI The Bird that Wouldn’t Sing . . 37 

VII The Hen and the Owl Chick ... 43 

VIII How Sonny Bunny Rabbit Learned to 

Whistle 53 

IX The Pigs and the Buttermilk . . 59 

X The Bird that Bought Bargains . . 65 

XI The Bear’s Tail 71 

XII The Country Cat 77 

XIII The Miller and the Mouse ... 81 

XIV How the Rabbit Came by His Short 

Tail 87 

XV The Little Bear’s Trousers ... 93 

XVI Mrs. Prairie-dog’s Lodgers .... 99 

XVII The West Wind and the Bear . . .107 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVIII The Cow that Loved Persimmons . .113 

XIX When the Donkey Found a Voice . 119 

XX The Lazy Goose 125 

XXI Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s Grandmother 13 i 
XXII Why the Woodpecker Wears a Spotted 

Coat 137 

XXIII The Beaver’s Two Wishes . . . .143 

XXIV When the Cat and the Dog Kept 

House 149 

XXV The Hen’s Shoes 155 

XXVI How Mammy ’Possum Got Her Pocket 16 i 
XXVII The Cat that Wanted to be Young . 167 

XXVIII The Virtuous Bear 171 

XXIX Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s Toothache . 177 

XXX Mr. ’Possum’s Overcoat 183 

XXXI The Crane’s Fine Flute .... 189 

XXXII The Frogs’ Contest 195 

XXXIII The Shadow Puppy 207 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

“ Tull dat rabbit boy’s toof-toof-toof ?’ ” 

Frontispiece y 

FACING 

PAGE 

u ‘Dance !’ holler de porkypine” .... 6 ^ 

All dat day she feed de owl chick . . . 46 ^ 

“ ‘I want my ta-a-ail! I want my TA-A- 

AIL!”’ 74^ 

“ ‘Oh, Mr. Crow, don’t speak to me so un- 
kind’” 116/ 

“ ‘Is yo’ granny big?’ ax de fox” . . . . 132 ^ 

“ ‘What you tryin’ to do?’ Mr. Duck ax. ‘You 

tryin’ to kill yo’se’f ?’ ” 168 ^ 

“He huff an’ he puff, an’ yit he ain’t fetch no 

music” , * ,192 ' 

i 



SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 
AND HIS FRIENDS 



SONNY BUNNY RABBIT AND 
HIS FRIENDS 


I 


HOW SONNY BUNNY RABBIT LEARNED TO 


DANCE 


HE great house stood, white pillared and 



wide galleried, behind its live oaks and 


& magnolias. Chinaberry trees shaded the 
drive which led to the quarters; offering their 
plumes of purple blossom in the summer, their 
bunches of sticky-sweet berries in the fall. The 
lawn sloped down to a sluggish little brook. 

Broadlands plantation was a world within it- 
self. The Randolphs in the big house, the army 
of negro dependents in the quarters, the miller 
down at that mill which the creek turned on its 
way to the river; the riff-raff of negro hunters 
who supplied the place with wild meat, the 


[i] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

comers and goers among the white visitors or the 
black servitors, all these ministered to the en- 
tertainment and enlightenment of the three Ran- 
dolph children, who lived a life which nobody 
not brought up on a plantation can imagine or 
quite appreciate. 

There was Aunt Jinsey who had been 
“mammy” to their mother before them, and who 
could — if she would — tell any number of tales 
which reached back to Africa and forward into 
fairy stories heard from small white companions 
in her own childhood. And with the coming of 
the new baby, a little colored nurse, twelve- 
year-old “America,” was brought from the quar- 
ters to play with the three older children and do 
what she could at looking after them until the 
old woman’s time was more her own. 

America assisted in getting Pate, Patty, and 
Isabel out of bed and, under Aunt Jinsey’s direc- 
tion, she managed their morning attire. Then 
after they were fed, came the time for strolling 
about the plantation and finding what was to be 
found of enjoyment and entertainment. She led 
her small white nurslings down the green swell 
[ 2 ] 


SONNY BUNNY LEARNS TO DANCE 


of the lawn to the tall cottonwoods at the 
stream’s edge. There, all day long, she droned 
away at the plantation stories which had nour- 
ished her childhood. And when the lamp of 
memory burned low, or her invention failed her, 
she would convoy her charges to where Aunt 
Aniky, old and half blind, tended a dozen little 
black babies whose mothers were at work in the 
field. 

If Aunt Aniky was grumpy, or they had no 
snuff to give her, why, there was always Amer- 
ica’s father, Uncle Bergen, the lame plantation 
shoemaker, who could tell good tales. If Uncle 
Bergen fell silent, it was because he had some 
visitor who could relate a story that was new to 
him. And so the little Randolphs never lacked 
for plantation lore. 

One of the favorite tales was a description of 
how the rabbits dance in the snow on moonlight 
nights. When there is a late snow, in February 
or March, these little fellows seem to go mad 
with the beauty and delight of it. They meet in 
open spaces in the wood, and dance all night 
long while the moon shines. 

[ 3 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


Sonny Bunny Rabbit was a great character in 
all the stories which America told. 

“But, Meriky, how did Sonny Bunny Rabbit 
learn to dance?” little Pate asked. “The crane 
knew how. Did he teach Sonny Bunny Rab- 
bit?” 

“No, little Marse, dat de crane did not. Dere 
was one pusson dat teach Sonny Bunny Rabbit 
de steps an’ ef you like to hear de tale, I tell you 
’bout it.” 

The children signified their earnest desire to 
hear, and America began : 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit been all de time goin’ 
’bout, sayin’ he could dance as good as any udder 
critter, ef anybody dest pat for him an’ show him 
de steps. Fust he went to de crane, ’caze hit 
dest like you say, de crane de finest dancer in de 
Big Woods. Sonny Bunny Rabbit mighty sure 
dat de crane teach him how to dance. 

“Mr. Crane he git up an’ lope all ’bout de 
place like a crazy critter. He walk lame; he 
tangle up he foots ; he all but fall down ; an’ he 
say, ‘Dat’s de way to dance.’ 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit know mighty well he 

[4] 


SONNY BUNNY LEARNS TO DANCE 

cain’t never cut all dem shines wid he short laigs. 
‘I got to have somebody to pat for me, or I cain’t 
take a step,’ he say — ‘not de fust step,’ he declar’, 
p’intedly. 

“Right shortly after dat, Sonny Bunny Rab- 
bit hear dat de porkypine been tellin’ all round 
th’oo de Big Woods dat he could teach anybody 
to dance — an’ dat widout any pattin’, too. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit he go to Mr. Porky- 
pine, an’ de porkypine laugh an’ curl hisself up 
an’ stick out all he long, sharp quills. 

“ ‘Does you want to learn to dance?’ he grunt. 

“ ‘I sho’ does,’ say Sonny Bunny Rabbit. 

“ ‘Stand on yo’ hind foots,’ grunt de porky- 
pine. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit stand on he hind foots. 
Mr. Porkypine jab one o’ he quills into ’em. 

“‘Ouch!’ say Sonny Bunny Rabbit; an’ he 
hop from dat foot to de udder foot. 

“ ‘Dance!’ holler de porkypine, an’ he jab he 
quills in whichever foot he come next to. 

“‘Hooey! Ooey! Ow — ow — ow! Ouch! 

You quit dat!’ holler Sonny Bunny Rabbit. But 
de more he holler, de more he hop. He lep’ 
[ 5 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

from one foot to de udder dest as fast as Mr. 
Porkypine could tickle ’em wid de sharp ends 
o’ he quills. 

“Hit warn’t no time tell he was jumpin’ so 
high dat de porkypine could sca’cely reach him, 
an’ takin’ fancy steps to beat anybody in de Big 
Woods. 

“ ‘Crack yo’ heels togedder !’ say de porkypine. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit ’bleege to try; an’ he 
crack he heels togedder tell dey done hear ’em 
pop plumb down past de spring-branch. 

“De porkypine see dat Sonny Bunny Rabbit 
’bout to drap. He ’low hit come time to put de 
last fedder on him. 

“ ‘Now cut de pigeon-wing!’ he say. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit look way up in de sky 
where de pigeons flyin’ ’bout an’ he ain’t got no 
notion how he ever gwine git up dar to cut dey 
wings. 

“Mr. Porkypine keep on ticklin’ him wid he 
quills. ‘Cut it!’ he holler; ‘cut it — cut de 
pigeon-wing!’ 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit give one last monst’ous 
jump, an’ one last turruble squirm — an’ dey tell, 
[ 6 ] 





0&P 




Dance ! Holler de Porkypine ” 


[Page 5 ] 



























































































































































































































SONNY BUNNY LEARNS TO DANCE 


to dis day and time, dat he cut de fines’ pigeon- 
wing dat ever been cut in de Big Woods. 

“Dat how de rabbit l’arn to dance, Marse 
Pate. He been knowin’ hit ever sence; but hit 
dest like I tell you: de onliest time he dance is in 
de snow, or in de Spring. An’ dat’s how he 
l’arnt to dance widout any pattin’ ; but sometimes 
de rabbits turns in an’ whistles for to take dey 
steps by.” 


[ 7 ] 




II 


THE DEER THAT TRIED TO PLEASE 
EVERYBODY 

NCLE BERGEN was building himself 



a pair of most wonderful boots the next 


V^/ time America took them down to the 
shop in the hope that he would tell them a story. 
It may be that this was the reason why Pate 
made fun of the boots. 

“They won’t look nice on you, Unc’ Bergen,” 
he asserted ungraciously. “Anyhow, you’d have 
to tuck your pants into them to show the red 
tops; and if you did that, they’d look worse than 
ever.” 

Patricia was the peacemaker; yet even she re- 
garded Uncle Bergen’s silence with great dis- 
favor. “I think shoes are a heap nicer,” she sug- 
gested plaintively. 

“Now,” demanded the shoemaker, severely, 
slowly turning toward the children as if to give 


[ 9 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


greater importance to what he was about to say, 
“has you-all 

Said yo’ say, 

An’ had yo’ way ? 


’Caze ef you has, I’s got a mind to tell you 
’bout de deer what set out for to please each an’ 
every. Dat what you-all put me to studyin’ 
’bout.” 

“Oh, do tell it, please!” begged the children. 

And Isabel shouted: “A story! A story! 
’At’s what we corned down here for.” 

“Might ’a’ knowed you come atter somethin’, 
by de scan’alous way you miscalled my Sunday 
boots. I bound ye, dis hyer story ’bout de deer 
gwine do you-all chillen good.” 

The young Randolphs settled themselves in an 
expectant row. 

“De ol’ doe, what was de mammy o’ dis hyer 
deer boy what I gwine tell you ’bout,” began the 
old man, “she got losted away from de herd, an’ 
she fetched up her son whar dey ain’t been no 
deers. She done well by him, for a widder, an’ 
she tried for to l’arn him sense. But he was a 
[10] 


THE DEER THAT TRIED TO PLEASE 

great somebody to go ’bout seekin’ advice, an’ 
axin’ all de other critters how does dey like his 
ways. 

“Time his horns commence to sprout, he nor- 
rated pretty much all th’oo de Big Woods, axin’ 
each critter how do he like de new ’rangement. 
His mammy sent him to de king’s house for to 
warn de drizzly bear, what was king o’ de Big 
Woods, of a bee-tree dat she done find. 

“ ‘How you admire dese hyer bumps what 
done come on de cornders o’ my head?’ de deer 
boy ax of de King Bear. 

“De drizzly bear feel ’bleege to say somethin’ 
— an’ say hit strong. 

“ ‘Huh!’ he grunt; ‘dey looks scan’alous to me 
— plumb scan’alous. I ain’t never been havin’ 
nothin’ like dat on my head; an’ look — I’s de 
king o’ de Big Woods, an’ when I holler, every 
critter in de Big Woods ’bleege to jump. Ef 
you keep on wid dem sprouters on yo’ head, you 
gwine come to a bad end — you hear me?’ 

“De deer boy hump hisself home to he 
mammy, an’ say he gwine quit havin’ dem bumps 
on he forehead, an’ he gwine quit hit right away. 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“‘Gump!’ grunt de old lady deer. An’ dat 
de fust word an’ de last word she say to him dat 
time. She know mighty well an’ good he cain’t 
quit de horn business dest by makin’ up he mind 
dat hit don’t suit him. 

“By dat, he take to axin’ de birds an’ de field- 
mices an’ de hopper-grasses and de little fishes 
how dey like de new horns what he commence 
to sprout. I done told you dis hyer deer ain’t 
growed — he dest a boy. When he dance home 
to he mammy wid de ruthers o’ all dem little crit- 
ters ’bout shill he have horns or shill he not have 
horns, she say, dest de same, ‘Gump!’ — dest so 
she say hit, ‘Gump! You let dem horns alone. 
Ef dey eeches, you rub ’em ’gainst a saplin’. 
You gwine be mighty proud when dey grows 
out.’ 

“So de young deer boy — he gittin’ to be a 
right smart fryin’-size critter by dis hyer time — 
he lef’ dem horns grow, ’caze he cain’t do no ud- 
der way. He sot in to eat, an’ to bark de trees; 
but he ain’t fergit to ax every critter dat he pass 
de time o’ day wid, does hit like de notion o’ him 
wearin’ horns. 

t 12 ] 


THE DEER THAT TRIED TO PLEASE 


“Some do, an’ some don’t. Dem folks what 
hain’t got no horns deyse’f — w’y, dey nachelly 
ag’in him raisin’ any. Dem what got horns 
cain’t never agree ’bout how his’n should sprout; 
an’ seem like dey hain’t no peace o’ mind for de 
deer boy in dat way o’ carryin’ on. 

“A old goat done tell him dat horns was all 
right, but dey ’bleege to go back like goat horns. 
A cow done tell him dat horns was good an’ 
proper, but dey ort to branch out wide apart like 
her’n. De rabbits say he better turn ’em into 
ears ef he can. An’ ’mongst ’em all, dey got dat 
young buck so pestered dat he wish he never 
been born — or ef he been born, dat he never sot 
in to sproutin’ horns. 

“But whenever he takes his troubles to old lady 
deer, she holler, ‘Gump!’ at him, an’ ’lowed dat 
she gwine carry him where he’ll see if he ain’t in 
need of horns dest like dem horns. 

“So one sunshiny day in de springtime she take 
an’ carry de young buck clean ’crost de Big 
Woods, to de fur end, whar de deer fambly 
livin’. Deers dest will fight in de spring. Dey 
hain’t no law been found yit dat’ll keep ’em from 
[i3] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


hit. De deer boy an’ he mammy was visitors, 
but de young bucks make out like hit was a game 
for each an’ every one of ’em to try a wrassle wid 
de new feller. 

“ ‘Let dat new boy come and try a round wid 
us!’ dey all holler. An’ de ol’ doe, she look at 
his horns dat’s big and prongy, an’ she look at his 
hoofs dat’s sharp and strong, an’ she says, ‘Go in, 
my son, an’ find out why you growed dem 
sprouters on yo’ head.’ 

“You reckon dat buck found out what his 
horns was good for? Ah, law! I bound you he 
did. Time he’d fit a few turns, he knowed why 
dem horns was prongy an’ sharp, an’ why dey 
was set in good an’ strong on de front o’ his head. 
He wa’n’t needin’ horns like a cow, an’ he had 
no use for horns like a goat — deer horns was 
what suited him. 

“De mammy deer stand by, she do, an’ she 
watch him mix in. She had de widder’s pride 
in her onliest son, an’ she knowed she’d raised 
him right. She turn to de drizzly bear what 
come to see de big fight, an’ she say, ‘Dat’s a likely 
boy, sah, ef I do say hit dat shouldn’t. He got 

[14] 


THE DEER THAT TRIED TO PLEASE 


de right tools an’ weepons. Horns for deers, an’ 
claws for bears, an’ every man to his taste — ain’t 
you say so?’ 

“By de time he’d whipped out de whole passel 
o’ young bucks, he wa’n’t axin’ no advice from 
hopper-grasses ; he wa’n’t carin’ what de jay-bird 
had to say; an’ he p’intedly J^spised de notion 
of talkin’ to fishes or mices.” 

The old man set down with a thump his fin- 
ished boots, gorgeous with their red tops and lin- 
ing of scraps of leather. 

“An’ dat’s dest how I is,” he concluded, with 
some sharpness. “Dem boots pleases me — an’ 
hit ain’t make nary lick o’ diffence who else is 
displeased.” 

“Is you callin’ us grasshoppers an’ mices an’ 
jay-birds?” inquired America, with a giggle and 
toss of her head. 

“Oh, we think the boots are mighty fine now, 
Uncle Bergen,” Patricia, the kind-hearted peace- 
maker, put in. “We’ll all like them better since 
you told us the story.” 


[i5] 


Ill 


THE OWL’S LUNCH 

ITTLE Patricia Randolph was labo- 
riously teaching America her letters. 



-I— ^ Most of the house-servants on the 
Randolph plantation were taught to read and 
write; and Patty had begun early with this 
young nurse girl, when she was first brought to 
the great house to play with them while Aunt 
Jinsey was busy with the new baby brother. 

“I mighty glad you ain’t de same kind o’ 
teacher dat Mr. Owl was, when he teach school,” 
America observed finally with a significant smile. 

Pate and Isabel had been sitting still much 
longer than they liked. 

“Is it a tale?” the little boy asked. “If it’s a 
tale, tell it to us, Meriky. We don’t want to 
hear any more old A B C’s.” 

Perhaps America herself was of that mind. 
Anyhow, she pushed aside the primer, and they 


[i7] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


all settled themselves on the gallery steps to 
listen, as she began: 

“You know dat Mr. Owl is ’most blind in de 
day-time. He ’bleege to git out in de night to 
hunt his rations, ’caze he cain’t sca’cely see when 
de sun shine. But most folks ain’t know how 
come dis. Hit come in dis-er-way. De big 
barn-owl mighty pore, an’ he have a mighty hard 
time to git along. One day he say to he little 
brother, de squinch-owl, dat he gwine have him a 
school. 

“ ‘I gwine an’ git me a yaller leaf to write on, 
an’ a stick to write on hit wid, an’ some stump- 
water for de ink,’ he say. ‘An’ I gwine have me 
a school, for to teach — er, um, lemme see, what 
kind o’ little young critters? Aw, yaas, I’ll dest 
teach little doves.’ 

“‘Huh!’ say de little swivelly squinch-owl. 
‘I don’t see how dat gwine he’p you out none.’ 

“De big owl laugh ’way down in he throat. 

“‘Hoo! Hoo!— Ha! Ha!’ he say. ‘You 
watch me — an’ wait. When I gits a nice bunch 
o’ dem young tender doves on a limb in front o’ 
me — I ain’t gwine go hungry.’ 

[18] 


THE OWL’S LUNCH 


“Den both dem owls laugh an’ hoot like dey 
crazy. So Mr. Barn Owl send out de runners to 
run, an’ de fliers to fly, an’ de crawlers to crawl, 
an’ tell everybody dat he gwine keep school for 
doves. 

“Mr. and Miz. Dove dey mighty proud to 
have a school to send dey young-uns to. Yit, dis 
school business plumb new to ’em, ye know, an’ 
dey natchully mighty skeerd o’ de whole tribe 
an’ nation o’ owls; an’ so, dest dat fust day, dey 
hang ’bout behind de bushes to see how dey chil- 
len gwine git on at a school what been teached by 
a owl. 

“Mr. Owl he nail de yaller leaf up on a limb 
wid a big honey-locus’ thorn. Den he make a 
big A, up on de yaller leaf. 

“ What dat?’ he ax dem little doves, dest like 
Miss Patty ax me.” 

America stole a humorous sidelong glance at 
her small mistress, and all the children laughed. 

“ ‘Coo — coo!’ say all de little doves at once. 
Dat’ dove talk, an’ de onliest word dey knows. 

“Mr. Owl let on like he mighty mad. 

“ ‘No!’ he holler. ‘No! dat not Q — hit’s A!’ 

[ 19 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

“Den he make anudder letter on de yaller leaf, 
an’ ax again, 

“ What dat?’ 

“De little doves powerful skeered by now. 
Dey hunch all up togedder on de limb, an’ shake 
like dey cold. Dey mighty skeerd o’ Mr. Owl’s 
big shiny eyes. Dey voices trim’le when dey 
tries to talk. 

“ ‘Coo — !’ dey say, ‘Coo — oo! coo — oo!’ 

“ ‘No hit ain’t Q — dat’s B,’ say Mr. Owl. 

“ ‘Hit don’t look like a bee,’ say de oldest little 
dove boy. ‘Hit don’t dest ’zackly look like a 
bee. ’Caze a bee have wings; an’ our mammy 
say dat a bee have a stinger. She say we musn’t 
eat ’em, ’caze dey’ll sting us an’ hurt us ef we 
do.’ 

“Mr. Owl mighty hongry; an’ when dat dove 
boy talk ’bout eatin’ hit dest make him wild. 
He holler so dat Mr. and Miz. Dove, behind de 
bushes, git closter to dey chillen. 

“ ‘Hit’s time to eat!’ old Mr. Owl holler. 

“ ‘But we didn’t bring no snack,’ say de dove 
chillen. ‘Please, suh, Mr. Owl, kin we-all go 
[ 20 ] 


THE OWL’S LUNCH 


home an’ git somepin’ to eat, now, ef hit’s come 
time to eat, like you say?’ 

“Mr. Owl grin mighty fierce. He snap he 
beak. 

“ ‘Oh, yes, you is,’ he say. ‘You is brung some- 
pin’ for me to eat. An’ I ain’t gwine wait no 
longer for hit; I gwine to eat you every — one — 
up!’ 

“By dat, he lep’ at de little doves. Dem po’, 
skeerd, trim’lin’ dove chillen holler an’ flop an’ 
flutter; an’ Mr. and Miz. Dove shore come a- 
flyin’! Dey dest whirl in. Dey peck dat ol’ 
owl in de eye so fierce dat he ain’t never been 
able to find his way ’bout in de day-time sence. 
More dan dat, he never got no doves to eat, an’ 
he show by dem doin’s dest what he is. Mr. an’ 
Miz. Dove tell hit on him, an’ hit git out all over 
de Big Woods, tell they ain’t nary critter pore 
an’ hongry enough to sen’ dey chillens to he 
school. Hit come down tell in dese days an’ 
times he glad ’nough to sneak out in de night- 
time an’ ketch him up a stray mouse.” 


[ 21 ] 



































IV 

THE FOOLISH PEACOCK 

A UNT JINSEY was dressing the chil- 
dren for Sunday-school, and Aunt Jin- 
sey was in a bad humor. America was 
off visiting to-day, and the old woman had the 
work of both to do. Little Patricia made a 
dozen trivial errands into her mother’s room to 
view in the long mirror her stiffly starched skirts 
and primly tied blue sash. 

“You dest like one dese hyer peacocks,” the 
old nurse grumbled. “You ain’t study ’bout 
nothin’ but spread out de tail o’ yo’ coat an’ walk 
up an’ down.” 

Gentle little Patty was so unused to reproof, 
that her lip trembled as she replied: 

“Well, you said my mamma was the most 
beautiful bride you ever dressed, and you’re al- 
ways telling me to try to be like her.” 

“Huh!” snorted Aunt Jinsey, “dat’s a gray 

[23] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


horse o’ ’nother color. You wait tell you git to 
be a young lady, an’ den bein’ beautiful will be 
yo’ business. ’Tain’t so now. Chillens ought 
to be good an’ keep deyse’fs clean — an’ dat’s all 
what dey need. You dest like de foolish pea- 
cock — tryin’ to hurry yo’ time.” 

Yet the old negress looked regretfully at the 
tearful little face. 

“There, now, you bad old Aunt Jinsey!” 
stormed Pate. “You made my sister cry — and I 
just hate you!” 

“Lawzy, chillen,” placated the old woman, 
“Aunt Jinsey ain’t mean to make anybody cry. 
You be good little ladies an’ gentermens, an’ I 
tell you ’bout de foolish peacock while we-all on 
de way to church.” 

This was balm to the wounds she had given, 
and from this point things went more smoothly. 
Reminded of her promise in the carriage, Aunt 
Jinsey began: 

“Once ’pon a time dey wuz a young peacock, 
an’ he went to a neighbor’s house an’ seed some 
mighty fine ol’ birds spreadin’ out dey tails an’ 
struttin’ up an’ down in de sunshine. He look’ 

[24] 


THE FOOLISH PEACOCK 


at dese hyer fine birds, he did, an’ he stretch 
’round to see is he got any tail — an’ he ain’t got 
much. Den he run straight home to he mammy 
an’ holler: 

“ ‘Make yo’ farewells to me, mammy; ’caze I 
gwine up to de big house, tell de cook to wring 
my neck an’ put me in de pot!’ 

“Mammy Peacock mighty put ’bout by dis. 

“ ‘What all dis foolishness?’ she say. ‘Dat 
cook up dar likely ’nough kill you widout yo’ 
axin’ her.’ 

“‘Oh, mammy, an’ oh, mammy!’ say dat 
young peacock. ‘I been over t’other side de hill. 
Dar I done see peacocks wid great tails like 
fans. Dey spread dem fans out in de sun, an’ 
every eye in de fedders look at me. Den, 
mammy, I try to spread my tail — but I ain’t got 
no tail to spread. Oh, Mammy Peacock — 
Mammy Peacock! I wisht I wuz dead. I 
don’t look one speck better dan what you does — 
an’ I wisht I wuz dead!’ 

“You knows, honey,” explained the old 
woman, “dat de pea-hens ain’t so fine lookin’ as 
de peacocks. But dis kind o’ talk make ol’ 

[25] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


Mammy Peacock most monstrous mad. She 
give dat young peacock a slap side de jaw. 

“ ‘You don’t look better dan what I does — 
heh?’ say Mammy Peacock. ‘Well,’ she say, 
‘how much better does you want to look dan yo’ 
own hatched mammy?’ 

“ ‘Hit’s all right for you,’ say de young pea- 
cock, sorter dodgin’. ‘You dest a hen, an’ has 
to be like you is. But I wants to look like dem 
big peacocks — or I wants to die. I is try, an’ I 
is try, to look dat-er-way, an’ I dest cain’t. So 
now I gwine up de hill an’ tell de cook to kill 
me.’ 

“Mammy Peacock give dat boy a taste o’ her 
slipper — she done see young birds ack dat-er-way 
before now. ‘You go to scratching up de ground 
for worms — dat’s yo’ business in dis world. 
You quit tryin’ to look like anybody but yo’self. 
As for yo’ tail, hit’ll come when hit come,’ she 
say. 

“Well, den, dat young peacock tuck to 
scratchin’ for worms an’ waitin’ on his mammy, 
an’ he plumb fergit all ’bout tails an’ sich-like 
foolishness. ’Course he knowed dat his fedders 
[26] 


THE FOOLISH PEACOCK 


wuz growin’ long an’ bright; but he put in his 
time scratchin’ for worms, an’ tryin’ to git de 
corn ’way from de other fowls, dest like his 
mammy told him to do, an’ lamin’ all kinds o’ 
good peacock manners. 

“Now mind dis part de tale, Miss Patty, honey 
— dis what I want you to study ’bout: One day 
dat peacock went over to dat same neighbor’s 
’crost de hill once mo’. Hit wuz a fine day, an’ 
he feel right good. When he seen de other pea- 
cocks, widout so much as thinkin’ ’bout what he’s 
a-doin’, he commence to spread he tail an’ strut, 
dest like dey was struttin’. Den dem other pea- 
cocks holler out together, ‘Oh, ain’t he fine! 
Hyer come de king o’ de peacocks to visit us!’ 

“Hit dest dat-er-way, little gal. Ef you leave 
off thinkin’ ’bout yo’ looks in dese days an’ times, 
an’ goes to work an’ does what yo’ ma an’ Aunt 
Jinsey tells you to do, wedder hit’s lessons in de 
book or keepin’ yo’ face an’ hands clean, some 
day you gwine be dest like dat young peacock — 
you wake up an’ find dat you is de queen o’ 
beauty — dest like yo’ ma shore wuz when Jinsey 
pinned on her weddin’ veil.” 

[ 27 ] 



V 


HOW THE COON GOT THE RINGS ON HIS 
TAIL 



MERICA’S invention had failed her. 


“I don’t want to hear about Cinder- 


1 ella!” said little Pate Randolph, 
crossly. “It’s a foolish, girl story. I want to 
hear about some animals!” 

“I done told you all de tales I knows ’bout var- 
mints,” said Meriky, dolefully. Her tenure of 
office, her chance to go to and fro in the big 
house looming white and grand above the chil- 
dren as they lay on the lawn in the drowsy south- 
ern summer afternoon, her hope of ever riding in 
the carriage, with a fresh white head-handker- 
chief, and the baby across her knees — all lay 
in pleasing the small Randolphs. 

“ ’Deed I is told you every tale I ever hear 
’bout varmints,” she reiterated. “Honey boy, 
let Meriky sing him ’bout de frog what went 
a-courtin’.” 


[29] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“I don’t want to hear your old song!” Pate 
stormed. It was hot, and everybody’s nerves 
were on edge. “I’m going right up to the house 
and ask mother to let us have Aunt Jinsey back 
again to nurse us.” Then he saw Meriky’s 
blank look, and added rather more kindly, “You 
can hold the baby. He ain’t old enough to want 
to hear tales.” 

“Let’s walk down to Uncle Bergen’s shop,” 
Patricia put in good-naturedly. “I just know 
Uncle Bergen can tell us a good story.” 

“Oh, yes,” lisped gentle little Isabel. “I love 
Uncle Bergen’s stories. Maybe he’ll have some 
sugar-cane for us, too.” 

“Certain shore pappy’ll have sugar-cane for 
us all,” cried America, rising eagerly to the sug- 
gestion. “Why wasn’t I studyin’ ’bout dat be- 
fore?” 

The little shop reached, she held a hasty con- 
sultation aside with the old shoemaker, which 
seemed to put him in a wonderfully accommo- 
dating and loquacious humor. He came to the 
door where the visitors stood, with a bunch of 
cane stalks in his hand. 

[30] 


THE RINGS ON THE COON’S TAIL 


“Tell you a tale?” said Uncle Bergen, looking 
down smilingly at the three children over his 
spectacles. “Well, set dar on de doorstone an’ 
eat yo’ sugar-cane, and let me keep my hammer 
movin’ on dis hyer shoe what I got to finish for 
Yaller Bill, and I’ll tell you — lemme see, what is 
I gwine tell you? Oh, yes; now I knows de 
very tale to fit you-all case — des’ de very tale. 
Hit’s ’bout how come de coon have a striped 
tail.” 

The old man settled back on his bench, while 
the children attacked the cane, and the steady 
rat-tat of his hammer, as he put the pegs in the 
sole of a big brogan, formed a pleasant accom- 
paniment to his speech. 

“In de commencement,” he began, “before any 
white men come to dis hyer country, dey was two 
wild men in de Big Woods. One on ’em lived 
close to a iron mine, and he had hammered out a 
whole passel of iron rings and put ’em on his 
fingers and thumbs. T’other wild man, he lived 
close by a gold mine, so he’d got him out de gold, 
and made a passel o’ dem rings to wear all over 
his fingers and thumbs.” 

[ 31 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


During this recital, little Pate had been hold- 
ing up his hands, looking at them. Now he 
chimed in, “I think the gold rings would look the 
best.” 

“Dat’s what de wild man wid de gold rings on 
say. He say right loud, an’ he say right ’long, 
dat gold rings is de best. And dat make t’other 
wild man mighty mad. 

11 ‘I say iron rings is de best!’ dis hyer t’other 
wild man holler. Folks didn’t study ’bout 
nothin’ much but fightin’ in dem days; an’ so 
hit nachelly foller dat both dem wild men say, 
‘We’ll fight hit out. We’ll des’ git at hit an’ 
fight de question plumb out.’ 

“Wid dat dey tuck an’ got out dey big clubs, 
for to fight. But right dar come up de inquire- 
ment, ‘Who gwine hold our rings?’ 

“ ‘De coon, he can hold yo’ rings,’ say de 
drizzly bear. De drizzly bear he was king of 
de Big Woods, and what he say was ’bleeged be 
done. But de coon, when he come up, an’ when 
he done been told de rights of de case, an’ what 
gwine be done — de coon he say he want all four 
[32] 


THE RINGS ON THE COON’S TAIL 


of his foots to run ’way on, ef de fightin’ git too 
close to him. 

“ ‘No, sir, I cain’t have nary one of my foots 
hand-cuffed up wid no rings, an’ dis big fight 
a-goin’ on close to me. Put dem rings on my 
tail, please, sir,’ say Mr. Coon. 

“Den dey put dem rings on de coon’s tail, one 
wild man a-standin’ on one side de coon, an’ 
t’other wild man standin’ on t’other side de coon. 
First come a gold ring, and den come a iron ring, 
and den come a gold ring; — chink-de-chank — 
chink-de-chank; dey pitch ’em on, turn an’ turn 
about, tell all de coon’s tail plumb kivered up 
wid rings. 

“Den dem two wild men dey sot in for to 
fight. Dey clubs went plim — plant — plum! 
plim — plam — PLUM! Same as de hammer on 
dis hyer shoe. A big dust riz up so dat none of 
de folks in de Big Woods could see dat fightin’. 
Dey all stand ’bout to listen, from de great 
drizzly bear, dat was de king of de Big Woods, 
down to little Miss Squirrel. An’ all dey hear 
— an’ all dey ever hear — is ‘Plim — plam — PLUM ! 

[33 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


Plim — plant — PLUM!’ An’ dem wild men 
gruntin’ when dey hit. 

“Time de sun gittin’ mighty low, an’ de night 
’bout come, all of a suddent de noise stop — 
whoosht!— des’ like dat. Den de dust settle an’ 
settle. But when de folks in de Big Woods 
go to look for dem wild men, dey neber found 
nothin’ but four eyes, an’ sixty-four teeth, an’ de 
little teenchy-weenchy tip ends of deir clubs, 
layin’ on de ground. 

“ Well, den,’ say de coon, ‘who gwine own 
dese hyer rings? Dat what I wants to know. 
Who own dis tail-ful o’ gold an’ iron rings I’s 
got de keepin’ of?’ 

“ ‘You is,’ say de drizzly bear. ‘Huh! dat’s a 
mighty easy question — hit’s plain as de horns on 
a buck’s head. You is you own self.’ ” 

The old man looked impressively over his 
spectacles. He dropped his hammer in his lap, 
and shook his black fore-finger at the children. 

“I done told you dat the drizzly bear was 
king. What he say ’bleeged be done. You go 
ketch you a coon in any woods — big or little — 
an’ you gwine find him wearin’ dem rings on his 
[ 34 ] 


THE RINGS ON THE COON’S TAIL 


tail to dis day. Dat’s de way — first a iron ring, 
an’ den a gold ring; an’ so on, tell you’ll find 
it striped, all de way down to de tip wid de rings 
what de wild men lef’ him.” 



VI 

THE BIRD THAT WOULDN’T SING 

B ABY ISABEL had been taught a little 
verse to say to the assembled friends and 
family on the evening of her father’s 
birthday. Aunt Jinsey had left the baby asleep, 
and was dressing the three older children for 
that important function. 

Pate and Patricia were already glorious in 
their stiffly starched white linen and lawn; and 
America was kneeling on the floor buttoning 
Isabel’s white sandals. 

Her work was interrupted by that young per- 
son stamping a minute foot, as she declared, li I 
won’t say it — I knows it, but I dest won’t say it! 
So there!” 

This was so unexpected an outbreak from the 
gentle youngest that Aunt Jinsey failed to re- 
spond with the usual caution concerning a Raw- 
Head-and-Bloody-Bones who waited about on 
[ 37 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

dark stair corners for children who stamped 
their feet and wouldn’t mind. 

America, the younger and more placatory in 
her methods, patted the small, white-clad foot 
with her horny black hand. 

“You ’minds me ob dat bird dat wouldn’t 
sing,” she said, with a smile cunningly remi- 
niscent. 

At this suggestion Pate spoke up eagerly. 

“If it’s a tale, tell it to us while you brush 
Belle’s hair.” 

And Patricia added: 

“Tell her that you’ll tell the tale if she’ll speak 
her piece.” 

America looked down into a very obstinate 
little face, with the lips shut in a tight line. 

“Meriky gwine tell de tale to please her 
baby,” the black girl said affectionately. “We 
ain’t gwine talk ’bout ma’s slippers, nor threaten 
nobody. Dest listen hyer, sugar baby: Once 
’pon a time dey was a mockin’-bird what lib in 
a bush right outside de winder ob de pri ncess. 
Ebery mornin’ dat mockin’-bird wake de prin- 
cess up wid he song. Ebery night he sing her 
[ 38 ] 


THE BIRD THAT WOULDN’T SING 


to sleep. De princess think as much ob dat bird 
as she do ob her whole kingdom. 

“Now, de mockin’-bird gittin’ ol’, an’ he got 
a son dat he trainin’ up for to sing fo’ de prin- 
cess when his time done past. 

“But when de daddy mockin’-bird done die, 
young Mr. Mockin’-bird been goin’ ’bout wid 
dese hyer ol’ blue jays, an’ he got bad notions in 
he head. 

“ ‘What I wants to sing fo’?’ he say, an’ stamp 
he foot dest like dat. ‘What I wants to sing fo’? 
De prince kin git her a jew’s-harp to make her 
music!’ ” 

Pate and Patricia had been eager to point the 
moral when America spoke of the young bird 
stamping his foot; but she shook her head at 
them, and went on : “So den dar wa’n’t no mo’ 
singin’ to wake de sweet prince up nor to put 
her to sleep. She pine an’ pine, she did; an’ she 
go to her daddy, de king, whar he set in his gold 
armcheer in de pahlor, wid a di’mon crown on 
he head. ‘Daddy, my mockin’-bird done quit 
singin’, an’ I’d ruther gib up de kingdom dan 
do widout he song,’ she say. 

[ 39 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“ ‘Hit’s dese hyer jaybirds done run him off, 
my honey chile, dat what hit is,’ say de king. 

“ ‘Oh, daddy, please suh, git de soldiers out 
an’ let ’em kill de jaybirds,’ say dat princess. 

“ ‘Dat I will, my honey chile,’ he say. ‘Dat 
I will. ’Caze I plumb ’spises a jaybird. Hit 
give me a misery when dey squall.’ 

“So de king tell his soldiers to take deir guns 
an’ hunt all ’bout de plantation fo’ dem jaybirds. 
By an’ by, d’rec’ly, one ob ’em come to de bush 
whar sot young M r. Mockin’-bird what wouldn’t 
sing. He up wid he gun, he did, an’ p’int hit 
straight at Mr. Mockin’-bird. ‘Hi! Dar’s a 
jay,’ he say. 

“ ‘Oh, no; dat must be my mockin’-bird,’ say 
de prince, puttin’ her head out de winder. 

“ ‘Ef you’ll ’scuse me, Missy Princess, dat 
ain’t no mockin’-bird,’ de soldier say. (Hit 
right dark dar in de bushes, an’ he cain’t see 
de color.) ‘Dat sho’ly ain’t no mockin’-bird, 
Missy Prince; ’caze ef hit was, he’d be a-sing- 
in’.’ 

“Lan’ sakes! How skeered dat bird was! 

[40] 


THE BIRD THAT WOULDN’T SING 


You reckon he sing, baby? Sing! He sho’ly 
did. Look like he up an’ turn loose all dem 
songs what he been holdin’ back, an’ bottlin’ 
down, when he ort to been singin’ ’em fo’ de 
princm; an’ he in sich a monstrous hurry, he 
never stop to sort out de notes nor de chunes — 
dey dest bust out, all matted up togedder. He 
sing tell hit sound like a band playin’. He sing 
tell he most fall outen de bush. 

“De prince clap her hands, an’ de soldier 
laugh; an’ de king call from de pahlor winder 
to know what de joke. 

“ ‘Look like he hear you,’ say de prince to 
de soldier man. 

“ ‘He sho’ sing fo’ deah life,’ say de soldier, 
whar he stan’ a-laughin’ watchin’ po’ little Mr. 
Mockin’-bird take a big breff, swell hisself up, 
an’ turn out de chunes. 

“An’ dat dest what Mr. Mockin’-bird singin’ 
fo’ — deah life — ’caze he skeered de soldier man 
gwine kill him fo’ a jay. He sing to show he 
quality. He sing to show he blood an’ raisin’. 
He sing to show dat he de pick ob de country — 
[4i] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


dest like you gwine be, my sugar baby, when you 
go downstairs. Now Meriky done got yo’ hair 
all fix purty.” 

“I’ll say my piece,” Isabel remarked amiably, 
giving a hand to brother and sister. 

“I’m the soldier man,” giggled Pate, “and 
I’m going to see that she does.” 

But gentle Patty shook her head reprovingly. 
“I’m the princess,” she put in, smiling on the 
baby sister; “and I wouldn’t let anybody hurt 
my mocking-bird, even if it didn’t sing.” 


[42] 


VII 


THE HEN AND THE OWL CHICK 
ATRICIA and Pate Randolph had gone 



to an evening party. There was din- 


JL ner company downstairs; America, the 
younger nurse, was away, and Aunt Jinsey, after 
putting the sure-enough baby to sleep, was wres- 
tling with the problem of getting little Isabel 
safely off on the dreamland route. 

“Oh, Aunt Jinsey! Look at de lady ’at holds 
up the clock. She’s got no clo’es on — no clo’es 
at all ! Don’t you s’pose her foots are cold — and 
her hands, and — and ’most all of her? Is that 
why she stays on the mantel-shelf where the fire 
is at? Naughty lady — she runned away from 
her nurse ’fore she was dressed!” 

The turbaned head nodded. 

“Lawsy! honey, child — cain’t you shet dem 
big eyes, an’ go to sleep like a lady? You look 
jest same as a little owl.” 


[ 43 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“That lady doesn’t sleep, Aunt Jinsey. Owls 
don’t sleep at night, either.” 

“Owls lives wid owls,” grunted the old 
woman. “De mammy owl don’t have to set an’ 
see de baby owls carry on like you doin’, when 
she sleepy as I is.” 

The dusky face relaxed, the rocker ceased to 
move; again the old nurse was finding the path 
upon which she had vainly tried to set the rest- 
less little feet of her charge. 

“Aunt Jinsey! Aunt Jinsey! Oh, Aunt Jin- 
sey! Do you reckon the little owls ever stay 
awake in the daytime and bother their mammies 
like I bother you at night?” 

“Dar now!” exclaimed the old woman, sitting 
suddenly erect. “You put me in mind o’ de time 
Miz. Hen tuck de owl chick to raise. I gwine 
tell you dat tale, an’ ef you don’t go to sleep an’ 
shet yo’ eyes after dat, sompin’ gwine happen — 
yes, an’ happen quick, an’ happen hard, an’ hap- 
pen a heap of it. I gittin’ plumb p’intedly wo’ 
out wid you. I is dat!” 

The four-year-old giggled delightedly, and 
snuggled down in her crib. The object of all 
[ 44 ] 


THE HEN AND THE OWL CHICK 


her questions was accomplished. Aunt Jinsey 
was going to tell her a story, and after that — 
well — it was possible more questions might 
bring forth more stories. 

“Time come when Miz. Hen find herse’f wid- 
out chick or child, an’ mighty lonesome. She 
walkin’ ’long past a thorn bush when she hear a 
crackin’ an’ a snappin’ an’ a clashin’. She look 
around, she do, an’ dar on de ground she see a 
owl chick, what de mammy owl done shove out 
de nest. Owls is half blind in de daytime, an’ 
sleepy, like I is, an’ you ort to be right now, an’ 
dis hyer old owl mammy ain’t never notice dat 
she scrouge dis chick out. So dar lay de owl 
chick, snappin’ an’ clashin’ his teef an’ a-doin’ 
his plumb best to tarrify de world. But Miz. 
Hen, she so hongry to have a chicken of her own, 
dat she stop an’ cluck to de thing: 

‘Oh, my little owl chick, 

Oh, my pretty owl chick, 

Won’t you come wid me an’ be my own little owl chick?’ 

“De owl chick leave off snappin’ he beak, an’ 
study on dat. While he studyin’ he nap off, an’ 
C 45 1 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

he half asleep an’ dreamin’ when he say to de 
old hen, 

‘Lead me whar you will, 

An’ let me be still — 

Oh, landy, but I’s sleepy!’ 

“De old hen lady she streak back to de barn- 
yard wid dat owl chick a-stumblin’ an’ a-num- 
blin’ ’long behind her. When de owl chick stop 
an’ go to sleep, she scratch up a worm or a bug 
for to toll him along wid. All dat day she 
march round de barnyard with her new chick. 
She feed him — an’ he sleep. He sleep — an’ she 
feed him. De other fowls mightily pleased wid 
de show, an’ dey make a great ’miration, an’ let 
on dey find de owl chick powerful handsome, 
an’ consider he got manners like de quality. 

“Old lady hen work so hard, dat ’long ’bout 
evenin’ she gittin’ mighty tired. You knows 
chickens goes to bed sooner dan humans. Time 
de sun fixin’ to set, Miz. Hen lead her owl chick 
to de henhouse, an’ spread out her wings an’ 
hover him like he was a brood o’ thirteen. By 
[ 46 ] 



All Dat Day She Feed de Owl Chick 


[ Page 46 ] 



























































































THE HEN AND THE OWL CHICK 


an’ by come all de other fowls. De roosters an’ 
de slick young pullets fly up on de roost. De 
hens what got chickens spread dey wings an’ 
make a little tent fer ’em. De ducks an’ de 
geese jist squaddown whar dey is an’ nap off. 

“But wid de dark in de henhouse, an’ de shad- 
der of de old hen’s wing, de owl chick wake up 
an’ begin to feel mighty lively. Look like to 
him hit gittin’ to be jest his time. His eyes look 
jest like yo’ eyes been lookin’ ever since de lamp 
been lit. 

“‘Mammy! Mammy!’ he say. ‘Is dese yo’ 
fedders?’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ say de old hen, mighty short. ‘What 
you reckon dey is — hair on de dog’s back?’ 

“ ‘Mammy! Mammy!’ holler dat triflin’ owl 
chick ag’in. ‘Will dey come out ef I pull ’em?’ 

“‘Ouch!’ holler de old hen. ‘You pull jest 
one more o’ my fedders out an’ I’ll tromp de 
breaf out o’ yuh!’ 

“‘Well, I wisht I may never! — was dat yo’ 
fedder?’ say de owl chick mighty innocent, an’ 
fer a spell he hush. 


[ 47 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“Ain’t no hope o’ peace whar dey’s a owl 
chick. Folks jest got napped off good when he 
start up ag’in. 

“‘Mammy! Mammy! How big is de world 
— is you know dat?’ 

“ ‘Hit’s big enough dat you ain’t gwine fall 
off — ef you hold still,’ say de old hen, gittin’ 
plumb mad. ‘I begins to see whar I was foolish 
when I took me a owl like you to raise.’ 

“But she ain’t more’n fix herse’f to go to sleep 
when come de next quisti’n : 

“‘Mammy! Mammy! What de sun made 
of?’ 

“ ‘Fo’ de land’s sake!’ she holler, ‘hush yo’ 
mizzable fuss! Never you mind ’bout de sun. 
Hit ain’t made out o’ nuffin’ dat you could eat — 
I tells you dat.’ An’ she ruffle up her fedders 
an’ — an’ sorter jaw — an’ skrawl, like hens does. 

“Wid dat he pull out a bite o’ de fedders, an’ 
old lady hen she up an’ give him a kick wid her 
claw, an’ he come flyin’ out in de middle o’ de 
henhouse, head over stummick, a-astin’ quis- 
ti’ns every jump! Nobody make answer. All 
de fowls sound asleep. But dat don’t stop dis 
[48] 


THE HEN AND THE OWL CHICK 


hyer somebody; lemme tell ye he’s a owl — a 
shore ’nough owl. He grab Mr. Rooster by de 
foot, an’ den he yell : 

“ What time o’ day is it? What time o’ day 
is it? What time o’ day is it? What you-all 
folks asleep for, anyway?’ 

“Mr. Rooster jest know one thing when you 
wake him up in de middle o’ de night, like dat. 
He riz up on his toes, he crack his wings ag’in 
his sides like pistol-shots, an’ he holler: 

“ ‘Cook-cook-cook! Cook-a-doodle-doo!’ he 
holler. 

“De humans in de house hop up an’ dress, dey 
does, an’ start to make de fire fer breakfast. 
But dey jest keeps on a-gapin’ an’ a-gapin’ so, 
tell dey fine’ly looks at de clock an’ sees de time 
o’ night dat it was, an’ dey go back to bed. 

“Dey ain’t mo’n drap off, when de owl chick 
stir up sech a noise in de henhouse dat de old 
woman wake up de old man and send him out 
to see is chicken thieves about. When de old 
man flash de lantern in at de henhouse do’, de 
owl chick hid un’neath he mammy; an’ de old 
man go back to de house, an’ say dem chickens 
[ 49 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


is plumb possessed, an’ he ain’t got no notion 
what make ’em carry on dat way. 

“In de mornin’ come de woman for to feed 
her fowls. Miz. Hen was a-stoopin’ an a- 
droopin’ ’round, tryin’ to git a wink o’ sleep after 
bein’ kep’ awake all night by de owl chick. She 
look jest like she feel — po’ly, powerful po’ly. 

“ ‘Dar now,’ say de old woman, ‘dat’s de hen 
ain’t got no chickens ner don’t lay no eggs. I 
was jest fixin’ to wring dat hen’s neck an’ put 
her in de pot to-day — an’ hyer she is sick, an’ not 
fit to kill.’ 

“ Old Miz. Hen was jest sleepy; but when de 
woman say dis, she drap her head, an’ try to look 
mo’ puny dan ever. 

“ ‘Mammy,’ whisper de owl chick down un’- 
neath her fedders, ‘ye hyer dat? Dar’s whar I 
saved yo’ life one time, sho’!’ 

“ ‘Well, for de love o’ goodness, go to sleep 
now, an’ let me do de same,’ say de old hen, ‘an’ 
you’ll save it once mo’, fer I p’intedly am going 
to die ef you keep me awake a minute longer.’ ” 

The old woman leaned softly over the small 
white bed. The closing words of her story had 
[50] 


THE HEN AND THE OWL CHICK 


been meant as an appeal, but it was unnecessary. 
The big bright eyes were closed; her own little 
owl chick was fast asleep at last. 


[51] 




VIII 


HOW SONNY BUNNY RABBIT LEARNED TO 
WHISTLE 

M EBBE you didn’t know how pretty rab- 
bits can whistle,” said America, the 
nurse girl, as she helped Pate, Patty 
and Isabel to feed their bunnies with fresh grass 
and clover leaves. 

Tame pets of this sort were a new thing on 
Broadlands plantation, and at first the young 
Randolphs had been very proud of them. But 
they began to seem stupid beside the tales which 
the negroes were always telling of the wonderful 
doings of the little wild gray rabbits. 

“I don’t believe these can,” Pate said discon- 
tentedly. “ I don’t believe these can whistle a 
bit.” 

“I don’t know ’bout dem kind,” America 
amended; “but I does know dat Sonny Bunny 
Rabbit an’ all his kin-folks can hit dey foot on 
[ 53 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


dey mouf, an’ dest whistle an’ call till hit sound 
like silver bells.” 

“It seems funny for a little animal with fur 
on it to whistle,” said Patricia thoughtfully. 
“How do you reckon he learned, Meriky?” 

“I don’t reckon — I knows,” returned the nurse 
girl importantly. “I dest knows de very time 
an’ place — yes, sir! An’ I knows de very pusson 
what teach Sonny Bunny Rabbit to whistle. 
An’ if you be good chillen an’ not dirty up yo’ 
coats befo’ luncheon time, I gwine set right 
down hyer, un’neath dis hyer tree, an’ tell you 
how come it.” 

The little Randolphs were only too glad to 
dispose themselves in a gingerly circle upon the 
grass, with due regard for fresh white linen. 

“You-all knows dat Mr. Hawk can whistle — 
oh, mind, he kin whistle sweet as sugar in de 
gourd, or honey in de comb! What I ’spect you 
don’t know is dat Mr. Hawk dest as soon whis- 
tle for a young rabbit as a young chicken. Hit 
ain’t pester him greatly which kind o’ meat he 
git for to eat. But he’s ’bleege to he’p hisself 
to young rabbit, dest de same as young chicken, 
[ 54 ] 


SONNY BUNNY LEARNS TO WHISTLE 


’caze a big rabbit could fight him like de hen 
kin. 

“One day Mr. Hawk he meet Sonny Bunny 
Rabbit walkin’ th’oo de Big Woods, an’ he stop 
for to pass de time o’ day an’ have some talk wid 
’im. Mr. Hawk keep lookin’ right sharp at 
Sonny Bunny Rabbit, ’caze he neither so very 
little nor so very big, but dest betwixt an’ be- 
tweens. Mr. Hawk ain’t right certain dat he 
could carry him off, ef he was to kill ’im. 

“ ‘I been an’ learned me a new chune,’ say 
Mr. Hawk. 

“ ‘Oh, whistle it for me, please, sir,’ say Sonny 
Bunny Rabbit. ‘I dest loves to hear you whis- 
tle, better’n anything.’ 

“So Mr. Hawk he sot in, an’ he whistle, an’ 
he whistle. De chune was all ’bout de blue sky, 
an’ de white clouds dat travel so fast up dar. 
Hit tell ’bout de air whar Mr. Hawk dest been 
flyin’. Hit fetch tears to Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s 
eye. 

“‘Oh, me! Oh, my! I does wish I could 
whistle like dat!’ dat foolish little rabbit say. 

“ ‘So you could — I could learn you mighty 
[ 55 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

quick — if you had yo’ lip split,’ Mr. Hawk tell 
him. 

“I done forgot to say dat dis was in de old 
times, befo’ rabbits have a split lip, like dey does 
now. 

“ ‘How is dat?’ Sonny Bunny Rabbit ax. 

“ ‘Dest look at my bill,’ say Mr. Hawk. ‘See 
how long an sharp hit am. Dat am what I 
whistle wid. You ain’t never goin’ to do no 
good whistlin’ wid a flat mouf like you got. 
You let me cut it right up de middle, an’ I bet 
you make a mighty fine whistler. Mebbe you 
beat me at hit.’ 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit tuck in a long breaf, 
dest like Miss Patty done when de dentick fixin’ 
to pull her toof. Den he say, ‘Cut hit. I won’t 
holler ef I can help hit.’ 

“So de old hawk jump on Sonny Bunny Rab- 
bit, an’ git ’im a holt on he lip, an’ start to fly 
’way wid ’im. But he nip so hard dat de lip 
cut th’oo, an’ Sonny Bunny Rabbit fall, ker- 
plunk , to de ground. Den de old hawk fly ’way, 
a-whistlin’, an’ mad ez he kin be. 

“Now you comes to de good part o’ dis tale. 

[ 56 ] 


SONNY BUNNY LEARNS TO WHISTLE 


Sonny Bunny Rabbit’ mouf heal up — but it ain’t 
grow back togedder. From dat day an’ time, 
he got a split lip. From dat day an’ time, all 
rabbits is got a split lip — dest you look at ’em 
an’ see. But when Sonny Bunny Rabbit’ mouf 
got over bein’ sore, an’ he went to call he friends 
’bout him, he find out dat he could blow his 
breaf th’oo de split, an’ pat on hit wid his paw, 
an’ make it sound like silver bells. He calls 
dem what he wants dat-a-way, to dis day an’ 
time.” 

“Yes,” said Pate, “and he can pick up things 
with his mouth a heap better because his lip is 
split. I think he ought to thank old Mr. 
Hawk.” 

“Well, Sonny Bunny Rabbit think so too,” al- 
lowed America ; “yit Mr. Hawk ain’t never come 
back to ax for his ’bleegements.” 


[ 57 ] 


J 


IX 


THE PIGS AND THE BUTTERMILK 

A MERICA had just taken the three little 
Randolphs down to see some baby pigs. 
The wee, pinky creatures were all 
curled down beside their mother, grunting and 
squealing. And the children thought them 
quite the cunningest things they had ever looked 
at. 

Little Isabel turned from them to the nurse 
girl. 

“Why don’t you ever tell us a tale about pigs?” 
she asked. “I think pigs are funnier than any 
animals.” 

“I dest knows one tale ’bout pigs, an’ I don’t 
know how come I ain’t never tell you dat,” ex- 
plained America. 

“Tell it now — tell it now!” begged all three 
of the children together. 

They were half-way back to the Big House 
[ 59 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


by this time; and they turned out of the lane 
and sat down under some tall beeches. 

“Well, den, I tell it,” America began. “OP 
Miz. Pig she have five chillen, an’ dey mighty 
smart chillen, dey wuz dat. Ol’ Miz. Pig wuz 
a widder, an’ every day she go to de farmer to 
git a jug o’ buttermilk for to eat herself, an’ feed 
to her babies. 

“She know dat a many an’ a many of de var- 
mints like de taste of shoat, an’ she tell her chil- 
len for to bar de door — an’ keep hit barred tight 
— whilst she gone. 

“ ‘When I comes back,’ she say, ‘I gwine pour 
a little buttermilk un’neath de door aidge. Den 
you know hit me. Den you know to take de bar 
down. But for yo’ life’ sake don’t take dat bar 
down tell you see de buttermilk cornin’ under.’ 

“Now ol’ Mr. Wolf live a piece de way down 
de road, an’ he got he eye on dem fat shoats at 
de Widder Pig’ house. He watch, an’ he watch, 
tell he see de mammy leave, den he lope up to 
de door an’ say, ‘Lemme in, chillen.’ An’ he 
try to talk prezactly like ol’ Miz. Pig. 

[ 60 ] 


THE PIGS AND THE BUTTERMILK 

“De chillen never ’spicion nothin’ ’bout de 
voice; but dey look for de buttermilk un’neath 
de door — an’ de buttermilk, hit ain’t come. 

“ ‘No, indeedy — you not our mammy. We 
got a sign an’ a simmel dat we know our mammy 
by,’ say de oldest pig boy. 

“ ‘Tell me how you knows I isn’t yo’ mammy, 
honey chillen — er, I mean, tell me, what make 
you-all think I isn’t yo’ mammy,’ whine Mr. 
Wolf. ‘ ’Caze I is yo’ mammy. I loves you 
better dan most mammies loves dey chillen.’ 

“An’ dat was true,” America paused to ex- 
plain, “ ’caze de wolf love de shoat so dat he eat 
him right up. 

“ ‘No, indeedy, we not gwine tell you,’ say de 
oldest pig gal. ‘You talk too coarse. Our 
mammy got a fine voice.’ 

“ ‘Oh, honeys, I done ketch a bad cold dis 
mornin’ ; Mr. Farmer’s barnyard mighty wet an’ 
muddy. Let me come in an’ dry my footses.’ 

“De pig chillen dey all draw back at dat. 
Dey don’t want keep dey mammy out in de cold. 
Yit no buttermilk come un’neath de door. By 
[ 61 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


dat time de littlest, runtiest, scruntiest pig, he 
done scrooch down an’ peep th’oo a crack an’ 
dar he see ol’ Mr. Wolf’s footses. 

“ ‘You not our mammy!’ squeal de littlest pig. 
‘We got a sign an’ a simmel to know our mammy 
by; an’ yo’ foots is too black an’ hairy.’ 

“By dis time Mr. Wolf so hongry for shoat 
meat dat he ready to drap in he tracks. ‘Oh, 
honey chillen,’ he whine; ‘my foots is so cold de 
time I come past Mr. Wolf’s house dat I hab to 
borrow his boots. Do lef me in, so I can dry 
’em an’ send ’em back.’ 

“Dest dat time ol’ Miz. Pig come up wid her 
jug o’ buttermilk. De wolf, he gittin’ mighty 
mad, an’ he sot in for to fight her. De Widder 
Pig kin fight, but she’d ruther run. So she hol- 
ler, ‘Lef me in, chillen! Lef me in!’ 

“Dat voice sound all right; but de pig chillen 
been fool’ so long, dey don’t know what to be- 
lieve. Dey dest stand back in a line an’ holler, 
dey do, ‘We want to see de sign dat our mudder 
give us ! We want to see de simmel !’ 

“I dest b’lieve Mr. Wolf would ’a’ killed ol’ 
Miz. Pig, ef, when dey was fightin’ dey hadn’t 
[62] 


THE PIGS AND THE BUTTERMILK 


kicked over de jug o’ buttermilk, so hit run un’- 
neath de door. All five of dem pig chillen he’p 
to let de bar down. Ol’ Miz. Pig roll th’oo hit, 
an’ de five chillen manage to shut de door, an’ 
put de bar up. Dat was de end of Mr. Wolf 
thinkin’ he could get any shoat meat at dat house. 
He lef ’ dem pigs alone till dey wuz growed — an’ 
butchered!” 


[ 63 ] 





































V 


» 








X 


THE BIRD THAT BOUGHT BARGAINS 

O N his seventh birthday Pate received a 
silver quarter for one of his gifts; and 
he was allowed to go down to the small 
country store with Uncle Bohannon, the coach- 
man, that he might spend it. He returned with 
— of all things, on a plantation where fat poultry 
were plenty — a lean and protesting old speckled 
hen! 

His mother was upstairs in her own room; 
Aunt Jinsey received him on the front gallery. 

“What you got dar, honey boy?” she asked 
curiously. “What you do wid dat oV hen?” 

“I bought it with my silver quarter,” returned 
Pate, stoutly. His own belief in the suitability 
of the purchase was beginning to weaken. 

Aunt Jinsey threw up her hands and laughed. 
“Oh, yah — yah — yah!” she shouted. “Ain’t 
we-all got chickens ’nough on dis Broadlands 

[65] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


plantation, widout you go to de sto’ an’ buy dat 
ol’ hen what look like she belong to MathusalenT 
grandmudder?” she inquired. 

Patricia and Isabel here joined the court of 
inquiry. Perhaps they had hoped for some 
small treat when their brother returned. 

“But she was so cheap,” murmured the little 
boy, disconsolately, as he seated himself on the 
gallery steps and nursed his purchase. 

“Nothin’ ain’t cheap what you don’t want,” 
said Aunt Jinsey, conclusively. “Suttinly not a 
sorry ol’ hen like dat, when we-all got de finest 
chickens in Miss’sippy, an’ mo’ dan we-all kin 
eat.” 

The gloom deepened on Pate’s countenance. 
The old nurse saw it, and smoothed the laughter 
from her own face. Further to relieve the situ- 
ation she offered one of the ready tales with 
which she was wont to instruct and admonish her 
little brood. 

“You minds me o’ young Miz. Song-Sparrer, 
little Marse,” she began. “Dat lady wuz what 
you might call a bargain-seeker. She ain’t think 
[ 66 ] 


THE BIRD THAT BOUGHT BARGAINS 


’bout much else. All she kin say dest, ‘Cheap! 
Cheap! Cheap!”’ 

The three children could not restrain a laugh 
at Aunt Jinsey’s sarcastic tones. Yet this 
sounded like the promising opening for a tale, 
and all three settled themselves to listen. 

“Mr. Song-Sparrer talk to Miz. Sparrer dest 
like I been talk’ to you, little Marse. He beg 
her look at sumpin’ ’sides de cheapness when she 
go to market. 

“De lady ain’t listen. She fotch home string 
in place o’ worms; an’ when Mr. Song-Sparrer 
ax how he gwine eat sich truck, she say, ‘Oh, but 
you must mind how cheap dey wuz. A body 
got to scratch for worms; but I dest pick up des’ 
hyer strings for a song. Dat what I give fur 
’em — a song — yes, sir, an’ I sung dat song my- 
self. Dey ain’t cost me nuffin’.’ 

“ ‘An’ dey ain’t wuth so much as totin’ home,’ 
say pore Mr. Song-Sparrer, as he peck at de 
string, an’ try to make a snack on ’em.” 

Pate let his bargain slide from his knees to the 
steps. Somehow, there was a likeness to string 

[67] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


in the hen’s scrawny neck and legs, the latter tied 
with a bit of gingham rag. 

“Matters rock along wid de Sparrer family 
tell after de eggs been laid in de sparrer’ nest, an’ 
Miz. Sparrer settin’ on ’em all de day long, so 
she cain’t go out an’ seek no bargains, an’ Mr. 
Sparrer feedin’ her so she have her time to do 
so. Hit come to de fourth day o’ July — dat late 
for a sparrer to be hatchin’ out a brood, even 
when hit de second brood in de year. Miz. 
Sparrer felt dat she ort to make dem eggs hurry 
up; an’ she wonder heap o’ times is dey any 
cheap truck layin’ round on de bushes dat Mr. 
Sparrer might as well pick up, an’ dat he ain’t 
a-gittin’. 

“Dest at dat time de little boy what live in de 
house near by de tree whar de sparrer’ nest 
build, come out an’ fling sumpin’ down in de 
gyarden walk. Den he run ’way. 

“Miz. Sparrer peek over de aidge de nest. 
What de boy flung down look dest like a nice red 
stick wid a string at one end. Miz. Sparrer ain’t 
study ’bout what use she got for a red stick wid a 
string at one end.” 


[ 68 ] 


THE BIRD THAT BOUGHT BARGAINS 


The old negress looked from the corners of 
her eyes at the little boy. Pate occupied himself 
with the knot on the legs of his hen. 

“No,” Aunt Jinsey went on; “de little sparrer 
lady ain’t axin’ no sich quisti’ns. ‘Dest goin’ for 
nothin’,’ she say, as she look at hit. ‘A body kin 
git dat for dey own price.’ An’ she fly down 
right quick, pick up de little red stick, an’ pack 
it back to her nest, an’ tuck it un’neath her wings 
wid de eggs. 

“De little boy what brung hit dar, he watch. 
Now he holler to he mammy in de house, ‘Oh, 
ma! De bird carry off my fire-cracker — an’ hit 
a-burnin’! What you reckon hit gwine to do to 
her?’ 

“Nobody didn’t have long to wait to find out 
what dis hyer last cheap business gwine do for 
Miz. Sparrer. She dest ’bout got herself fixed 
good wid de fire-cracker ’mongst de eggs when 
— Bingety — bang! Bim — bam — blip! — dat 
fire-cracker go off. De eggs dey splosh all 
’bout. Miz. Sparrer git her wings an’ her tail- 
fedders singe! Mr. Sparrer, cornin’ home wid a 
good fat worm for her, dest ’bout skeerd out’n 

[69] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


his wits when he see her shoot up in de air, wid 
egg-shells all ’bout her, an’ fall down a-hollerin’. 
De little boy laugh; but ’tain’t no laughin’ mat- 
ter to de Sparrer fambly. 

“I’spect dey built ’em ’nudder nest, an’ dat lit- 
tle Miz. Sparrer lay some mo’ eggs in hit. But 
she l’arn dest what I been tellin’ little Marse — 
no truck ain’t cheap unless you wants hit.” 

Pate pushed the scrawny hen with his bare 
foot. 

“You can have it, Aunt Jinsey,” he said, un- 
comfortably. 

“Thanky, little Marse. Thanky greatly,” 
said the old nurse, bowing and smiling as she 
picked up her hen. 

“I’s mighty proud o’ my bargain, dat I is. I 
needs a chicken down to my cabin. I gwine git 
yo’ ma lef’ me make you a whole pan o’ ginger- 
bread men, an’ beasts. Dat suit little white 
ladies an’ gentleman a heap better dan a sorry ol’ 
hen.” 

And the three children all shouted together 
that it would. 


[ 70 ] 


XI 


THE BEAR’S TAIL 

T HE Randolph children were wild with 
delight. America had brought word 
that Injun Laban was at her father’s 
cabin, and their mother said that they might go 
down to see him. 

Indian Laban — or Daddy Laban, as he was 
more often called — was an institution on Broad- 
lands plantation. Slender, straight, with a pe- 
culiar, stealthy grace of motion quite unlike the 
slouching gait of the negroes, Laban showed his 
Indian blood in his copper skin, his oily ring- 
lets of black hair, and his dislike of any sort of 
regular work. 

Yet, with all, the half-breed was a fine cow 
doctor, a master hand with the ailments of 
horses, commonly feared by the negroes as a 
voudou, and held in favor by the white children 
because of the tales he could tell. The son of a 
[?i] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


slave woman and a Chickasaw father, he had 
been born upon the plantation, and had passed 
there as much of his wild boyhood and young 
manhood as was not spent in the swamps and 
with the last, lingering remnant of his father’s 
tribe. His speech was the speech of the other 
negroes; but the stories he told were often those 
which had come to him through his Chickasaw 
ancestry. 

“I got you a good tale,” he said, smiling, as 
little Pate Randolph presented the offering of 
tobacco which they brought with them. “Yes, 
little Marse, an’ little Miss, hit’s fo’ months 
sence I was here last; an’ in dat time I done 
found out how come de bear have so short a tail, 
an’ I ’bout to tell you de which an’ why of hit.” 

Aunt Malinda, who was Uncle Bergen’s wife 
and America’s mother, had placed the only 
chair in the cabin for the distinguished guest 
and narrator. The children from the Big 
House sat, all three of them, upon a small bench, 
and the dusky occupants of the cabin gathered 
respectfully behind them; for Daddy Laban’s 
stories were much enjoyed, even by the elders. 
[72] 


THE BEAR’S TAIL 


The old man tossed back the long ringlets 
from about his thin, wrinkled face, and be- 
gan: 

“Long an’ long ago, in de beginnin’ times, de 
bear have a mighty big curly tail. He mon- 
strous proud of dat tail, yit hit plague him to 
tote hit ’bout. By dat, he got in de way — when- 
ever he go huntin’ — of takin’ off his tail an’ 
puttin’ it un’neath a rock till he git back. 

“One day de Woman out pickin’ blackberries 
an’ she find dat bear’s tail un’neath de rock. 
‘Uh-huh!’ she say. ‘I dest pack dis home an’ 
make my old man a fine soup. I always been 
hearin’ dat bear-tail mighty good eatin’.’ 

“She tote dat bear-tail home, an’ make her 
man a soup. ‘Dat de best soup I eve’ put in my 
mouth,’ de Man say. An’ dat make de Woman 
mighty proud. 

“Dat night, after dey done gone to bed, an’ 
fas’ asleep, come somethin’ ’nother a-stumpin’ 
an’ a-bumpin’ an’ a-humpin’ an’ a-jumpin’ 
’round de house. De Woman she wake up. 
De Man he wake up. Den dat somethin’ 
’nother growl out, 


[ 73 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“‘I want my ta-a-ail! I want my ta-a-ail! 
I want my TA-A-AILP ” 

The old man threw back his head, half shut 
his eyes, pursed up his lips, and wailed the 
words, with the eerie sound of a wintry wind 
around the house-corners. 

“ ‘My land!’ de Man say. ‘Dar dat bear! 
Did you tote off his tail, Woman? You always 
makin’ trouble fer me!’ 

“By dat time, you see, he done fergit all ’bout 
dat good soup what he praise so greatly, an’ 
what he mostly eat up hisself, an’ leave de 
Woman to lick de pot. 

“ ‘Never you mind ’bout my makin’ trouble,’ 
de Woman say. ‘Ef I make trouble — I kin un- 
make hit.’ 

“Wid dat she lep’ out de bed an’ run to de 
winder. ‘Is dat you, bear?’ she ax. An’ de 
bear r’ar up on his hind laigs un’neath de 
winder an’ fa’rly beller out, 

“‘I want my ta-a-ail! I want my ta-a-ail! 
I want my TA-A-AILP 

“ ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ say de Woman, mighty 
friendly an’ polite ‘Didn’t you take hit off an’ 
[ 74 3 





“ c l Want My Ta-a-ail! 


I Want My TA-A-AIL !’ ” 


[Page 74 1 






















































































THE BEAR’S TAIL 


put hit un’neath de rock whar I found hit? An’ 
don’t you always have ’bleege to do dat when 
you wants to travel fast? Ain’t you feelin’ 
much better widout hit?’ 

“De bear stan’ stock-still, where he r’ared up 
on his hind laigs, an’ des gape at de Woman. 
Den he begin again, 

“ ‘I want m — m — I want — ,’ an’ he stop right 
sudden, an’ look ’bout him. Den he holler out, 
‘Why, dat’s de trufe, Woman! Hit’s de blessed 
trufe!’ 

“And wid dat he turn and trot off in de bushes. 

“ ‘Ain’t I tell you dat ef I make trouble I can 
unmake hit?’ say de Woman to de Man. ‘Des’ 
look at dat,’ she say. 

“ ‘Yaas, law, but yo’ makin’s don’t stay made,’ 
say de Man. ‘I hear dat bear cornin’ back!’ 

“Sure enough, de Woman looked out de win- 
der, an’ dar Mr. Bear un’neath hit on de ground, 
lookin’ up at her. 

“ ‘What you want?’ she asked mighty brash, 
but her knees was trimbly — ef the bear could 
have knowed it. 

“ ‘Please ma’am, Miz. Lady,’ de bear say, 
[ 75 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


mighty humble and pleasant-like, ‘I come back 
to know could I ax you, ’casionally, what I 
really does want, and what I thinks, when I 
thinks I thinks — ’caze I see dat you knows a 
heap better dan what I does.’ 

“ ‘To be shore you can — to be shore you can!’ 
de Woman say, mighty relieved. ‘An’ I’ll keep 
de whole nation of bears wearin’ short tails, ef 
you ax me.’ 

“An’ so hit been to dis day an’ time. I ain’t 
sayin’ dat de bear l’arnt wisdom from dat one 
tellin’, and I ain’t sayin’ dat de Woman kept all 
de ginerations of bears from wearin’ long tails. 
But dis much I do say: You look at a bear in 
dese days an’ you’ll find his tail short — like hit 
ort to be.” 


[ 76 ] 


XII 


THE COUNTRY CAT 

T HE big white cat trotting across the lawn 
with a rat in his mouth started Meriky 
on a story this afternoon. 

“O-o-oh! Hear him growl !” cried Pate, as 
Tom strutted proudly past. 

“Huh!” exclaimed Meriky. “Cats and 
mouses didn’t used to be sich bad friends as dey 
is now. Once ’pon a time dey visited back an’ 
forth like yo’ ma an’ Miz. Paterson.” 

“What made them fall out, Meriky? Is it a 
tale? Oh, tell us — do!” begged the three chil- 
dren in chorus. 

“Hit come ’bout dis-er-way,” the nurse said 
drowsily. “Ol’ Miss Cat live in de country, 
but she mighty hongry to know ’bout town do- 
in’s. She tell round ’mongst her friends ’bout 
how greatly she’s honin’ for to see de sights. 

“Middle of de night come little Mr. Gray 
Mouse knockin’ on de door, and say he got a 
[ 77 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


cousin goin’ up to town, an’ if Miss Cat still 
wantin’ to see de sights, dis hyer cousin be proud 
to give her a lift. 

“Den Miss Pussy Cat put on her bonnet an’ 
put on her shawl, an’ tuck her a poke full o’ 
victuals an’ started out wid Mr. Mouse. 
Mouses does dey travelin’ by night; an’ de cat 
an’ mouse travel all night, and git to town de 
next day. 

“When dey come where all de people was, 
Mr. Mouse pick up his foot and run in a rat 
hole; but Miss Cat set down by de side de road 
for to eat her snack. She was a-settin’ dar, 
spreadin’ out all dat good country sassige, and 
ham and sich truck when a town cat come a-past. 

“Dis hyer town cat was hongry, he was all 
raggety, same as de beggar man what yo’ ma 
give a dinner to yistiddy. He want Miss Cat’s 
victuals mighty bad. 

“‘My lan’!’ he say, ‘whar you git dat pig 
mess?’ 

“ ‘Dat my snack,’ say Miss Cat, mighty polite. 
‘I brung hit wid me from home. Won’t you 
jine me, sir?’ 


[ 78 ] 


THE COUNTRY CAT 


“Now dat dar ol’ hongry town cat want every 
bit of Miss Pussy Cat’s snack. He never want 
to jine her; so he say, 

“ ‘Does dey really eat sich a mess as dat in de 
country whar you come from?’ 

“ ‘Yes, indeedy,’ say de country cat, mighty 
glad to meet up wid town folks, an’ l’arn town 
ways. ‘Don’t you eat sich in town? What you 
eat in town, anyhow?’ 

“De town cat look all ’bout. He boun’ to 
sen’ Miss Pussy Cat on a arrant dat’ll take her 
’way from dem good victuals. Right den he 
see Mr. Mouse peep out a hole to ax Miss Cat 
how she come on. He boun’ if Miss Cat git to 
runnin’ after Mr. Swif’ Foot Mouse he have 
time to steal her dinner. 

“ ‘We eats mices,’ he say in de grandest sort 
o’ way. ‘You never will l’arn town ways tell 
you l’arn to eat mices.’ 

“I done told you dat Miss Pussy Cat plumb 
crazy ’bout l’arnin’ to do like town folks does. 
She hop up an’ leave dat lunch, quick as you 
could wink — an’ dat ol’ hongry town cat grab 
hit des’ as quick. She run dat mouse plumb 
[ 79 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


down all de way to de Co’t House. Dar she 
ketch him, an’ right dar she eat him — all but de 
squeak an’ de teef. 

“Den by dat, she got de taste; and all cats 
been eatin’ rats and mices to dis good day.” 


[80] 


XIII 


THE MILLER AND THE MOUSE 
S a great privilege, the Randolph chil- 



dren were sometimes allowed to go 


1 V down the little, sluggish river, to where 
an artificial pond had been made and a gristmill 
erected. On these excursions the younger nurse 
usually went with them, and when their entreat- 
ies failed, she would help them to beg Uncle 
Nate, the powdery-headed black miller, to tell 
them a tale. 

To-day they had eaten corn, parched in the 
miller’s Dutch oven, had chewed raw wheat till 
they made a sort of chewing-gum out of it, and 
had played till they were weary. 

“What makes you let so many mice stay in the 
mill?” asked little Pate. “Father says you 
ought to have a cat, or set traps and get rid of 


them” 


C 8 1 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“Yass, suh — yass, suh! Dat what yo’ pappy 
say. But you tell Marse dat I done hear ’bout 
one man what got rid of all de mices an’ de rats 
— an’ de mill at de same time. Yass, law — de 
mill an’ all! Ye see, honey chillens, dese hyer 
little people bound to have dey rations some- 
where. Ef dey got to eat Marse’s corn, better 
dan to do wuss, like dat man I spoke on.” 

“Tell us about the man that lost his mill,” 
urged Patty. They had not heard a story yet, 
and it was nearly time to go home. 

They sat closely upon the sacks of grain; the 
droning of the mill-wheel, the purring of one 
great stone upon the other, the ripple of the 
water below the mill, formed a sleepy accom- 
paniment for Uncle Nate’s speech. The old 
man sat where he could see the hopper, and 
know whether the grain was feeding properly. 
Little Pate was curled down near the spout, 
where the warm meal poured out, golden yel- 
low; now and then he dabbled his fingers in it 
luxuriously. 

“Dis hyer man what I gwine tell you ’bout 
was a mighty clever somebody,” began Uncle 
[82] 


THE MILLER AND THE MOUSE 

Nate. “He mouf was dest alius on de stretch; 
he bawlin’ an’ laughin’ from mornin’ tell night 
— an’ yit he ain’t a kind man. He mighty hard 
on all sorts o’ little creatures an’ varmints. 
Look like hit pleasure him greatly to take dey 
po’ little life. 

“One mornin’ Mr. Miller Man git up an’ rip 
open a sack o’ corn to fill de hopper, when out 
jump a little mouse. 

“ ‘Oh, wife,’ dat Miller Man say, ‘fetch me 
my butcher knife ; I gwine kill dis hyer mouse.’ 

“Wid dat, de little mouse put up hits paws 
togedder, dest like you fix up yo’ hands whenst 
you prays. Hit begged, an’ hit begged dat 
Miller Man not to butcher hit. 

“ ‘I eats mighty little,’ say de mouse, wid de 
tears runnin’ down hits cheek. ‘You lef me 
stay in yo’ mill, please, suh, an’ I keep it clear 
o’ rats an’ mices, same as a cat would do.’ 

“De Miller he whet he butcher knife on de 
leg o’ he boot an’ say, ‘Ef you do dat — er — um 
— well, mebbe I let you live.’ Yit he look 
mighty hongry for to kill somethin’. 

“An’ de little gray mouse promish an’ vow dat 

[83] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

ef he spar’ her, she pass de word to all rats and 
mices not to come to dat mill. 

“What she said, she done. Dere was no 
mouse an’ no rat in dat mill for more dan a 
month. Den, one mornin’ Mr. Miller Man 
hear a teenchy little squeakin’. 

“ What dat?’ he holler. ‘You been bringing 
yo’ friends to my mill?’ 

“ ‘No,’ say de little mouse, an’ she look mighty 
proud an’ happy. ‘Dat my five babies what you 
hear. Dey was bornded last night’; an’ she 
tuck an’ show de Miller Man whar’ dey wuz. 
She mighty please’ ’bout dem baby mouses — 
purty or not, a baby always looks fine to hits ma 
— an’ she ain’t think dat Mr. Miller Man gwine 
make a fuss ’bout her own babies. 

“‘Huh!’ say Mr. Miller Man, ‘dis de way 
you keep yo’ word, is it? I was a fool when I 
trusted a mouse. You vow dat you gwine never 
bring no mices in my mill, an’ here is five mices!’ 

“Den dat Miller Man pick up de nest, an’ 
blip — splosh! He flung hit an’ de babies out in 
de mill-race! 

“Uh-uh, law, but dat little mouse was mad! 

[ 84 ] 


THE MILLER AND THE MOUSE 


Yit she dest a mouse, an’ he a big man; so she 
ain’t say nothin’. She stay on in de mill. But 
after dat she had her a new job, an’ what you 
reckon hit wuz? W’y she gnawed — an’ gnawed 
— an’ gnawed de postes of dat mill. Night an’ 
day dat little mouse gnawed on dem postes. 

“Den come de Spring-time; an’ de big water 
git up, an’ de branch riz. An’ where dem postes 
been half-gnawed th’oo, dey break, an’ de mill 
fall in de water — splosh ! 

“ ‘Save me!’ Dat what de Miller Man holler 
as he float down de branch. 

“ ‘I’m sendin’ you out to find my little babies,’ 
squeak de mouse; an’ she dance an’ cut de 
pigeon-wing on de bank as de Miller Man went 
a-sailin’ pas’.” 


[85] 


XIV 


HOW THE RABBIT CAME BY HIS SHORT 
TAIL 

I THINK rabbits are about the prettiest of 
all the creatures,” said Patricia, as the 
children stood watching their pets feed. 

“I think they’d be a lot prettier if they didn’t 
have such short tails,” complained Pate. “They 
look so bunty.” 

“Maybe they have a short tail so they can hop 
about better,” suggested little Isabel. 

America, the nurse girl, chuckled. 

“You right dar, little miss,” she said. “De 
rabbit been able to hop ’bout heap better sence 
he got a short tail!” 

“Since he got it — since he got a short tail!” 
repeated Patty. “Why, Meriky, hasn’t he al- 
ways been just the same?” 

And both other children put in promptly: 
“Oh, if it’s a story, tell it to us.” 

[87] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“Hit come ’bout dis-a-way,” began the nurse 
girl. “In de beginnin’ times de first rabbit got 
a great long tail. He have to be mighty keerful 
for to keep it out de mud. Yit, he was mightily 
proud dat tail, an’ hit dest like Marse Pate say, 
he did look fine wid it. 

“In dem times de fox mighty hongry all de 
while for young rabbit meat. He ain’t never 
pick a fuss wid Sonny Bunny Rabbit, ’caze 
Sonny Bunny Rabbit too big an’ strong for him 
to fight; but he keep lookin’ at dat long tail an’ 
honin’ for a bite on it. 

“So he study, an’ he study, how he gwine git 
to eat piece o’ Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s tail. Den 
he go to Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s house an’ ax him 
won’t he do ’im de pleasure to come an’ take a 
walk. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit mighty easy-goin’ 
somebody, an’ Mr. Fox turrible clever, pleasant- 
speakin’ genterman; so out dey step. De fox 
lead the way to de spring-branch. When dey 
git dar he say, 

“ l I ain’t know how to swim — does you, Mr. 
Rabbit?’ 


[ 88 ] 


THE RABBIT AND HIS SHORT TAIL 


“Sonny Bunny Rabbit say he ain’t know how 
to swim neither. 

“ ‘Ef you could swim,’ Mr. Fox say — ‘ef you 
could swim ’crost an’ lef me hold to yo’ tail,’ he 
say, ‘we could bof git ’crost mighty fine.’ 

“Now, Sonny Bunny Rabbit dest de ’bleeg- 
inest critter in de Big Woods. He like to 
’bleege dem what ain’t never ’bleege him — an’ 
dat’s plumb foolish. De tears riz to he eyes 
when he think dat Mr. Fox done ax him some- 
thin’ dat he cain’t do. Look like hit never enter 
in he mind dat Mr. Fox dest ez well do de swim- 
min’ ’crost, and lef him do de holdin’ on to some 
one’s tail. 

“ ‘I be happy to ’bleege you, sir,’ he say. ‘Hit 
grieve me greatly dat I cain’t do so; but, Mr. 
Fox, I cain’t swim a lick — I jes’ nachelly cain’t 
swim a lick.’ 

“Oh, den Mr. Fox swell out grand. 

“ ‘Dat no matter, Mr. Rabbit,’ he say; ‘wid a 
man like you is, I teach you on de dry land, an’ 
you kin swim in de water time I show you de 
motions.’ 

“You never in yo’ life see anybody so please’ 

[89] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

as Sonny Bunny Rabbit been when de fox say 
dat. 

“ ‘Oh, teach me, Mr. Fox,’ he say. ‘Teach 
me right hyer an’ now!’ 

“Mr. Fox put Sonny Bunny Rabbit on he 
stummick, ’crost a log, wid he face to de spring- 
branch. 

“ ‘Time I git done wid you you gwine swim 
like a fish,’ he say. 

“Den he show de rabbit how to paddle wid 
he front paws, an’ kick wid he hind paws, an’ 
he say, ‘You must make de motions by my count. 
I stand right back hyer an’ say de word ; you do 
de kickin’ an’ de paddlin’, an’ I do de countin’.’ 

“Wid dat he set off. ‘One — two — free ! Kick 
harder, Mr. Rabbit! Four — five — six! You 
must paddle quicker dan dat, Mr. Rabbit! 
Seven — eight — nine! Keep dat up, Mr. Rabbit. 
I got take hold an’ turn you a little.’ 

“As he say dat, Mr. Fox take a good, big bite 
o’ Mr. Rabbit’s tail. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit mighty worked up 
’bout de swimmin’ lesson when he got dat nip, 
an’ he ain’t tu’n ’round. ‘Ouch!’ he holler. 
[90] 


THE RABBIT AND HIS SHORT TAIL 


‘Lemme quit a minute, Mr. Fox. Some var- 
mint done nip my tail!’ 

“ ‘Don’t you stop now!’ de fox holler back to 
him. ‘Don’t stop for yo’ life! You gittin’ it so 
fine! Don’t stop one minute! Keep up dat 
paddlin’ wid yo’ front paws! Keep up dat 
kickin’ wid yo’ hind paws! One — two — free! 
Go for it!’ 

“Mr. Fox holler well as he kin; but he mouth 
so full o’ rabbit meat dat he cain’t hardly talk. 

“When he say ‘Free!’ he bite off most de last 
bit Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s tail. Sonny Bunny 
Rabbit kickin’ an’ paddlin’ so hard dat he fly 
right up in de air an’ turn fourteen summersets 
’fore he quit. He come down mighty light an’ 
happy. He could run jest four times ez fur an’ 
ez fast ez he usen to — an’ Mr. Fox gone! 

“Somepin else gone, too. Sonny Bunny Rab- 
bit’s tail gone wid Mr. Fox. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit mighty glad to be shet 
o’ dat ol’ tail. He hunt high an’ low for Mr. 
Fox to give him his ’bleegements for takin’ off 
dat tail. He huntin’ for Mr. Fox yet, to tell 
him ‘thankee, suh’; but Mr. Fox ’low he after 
[ 9 1 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


’venge for dat tail-eatin’ business — he keep outen 
de way, an’ got no truck nor doin’s dese days 
wid short-tail rabbits.” 


[92] 


XV 

THE LITTLE BEAR’S TROUSERS 



ITTLE Pate Randolph had the ear-ache. 


Aunt Jinsey had steamed his ear by lay- 


^ ing a damp cloth over a hot brick, wrap- 
ping it outside with dry flannel, and laying it 
against the aching member. 

“Ouch!” cried the child. “That burns me. 
I don’t want any old brick under my head!” 

“Den let Aunt Jinsey draw a few whiffs on 
her pipe, an’ blow de smoke in, honey boy. Dat 
make yo’ year all right.” 

“You shan’t smoke in it!” objected the little 
boy. “I want to go downstairs!” 

“Now, sweet child, yo’ ma got a poller full 
o’ company. You lay right still an’ let Aunt 
Jinsey sing to you an’ baby brudder.” 

“I don’t want you to sing. If I can’t go 
downstairs I want to hear a tale,” the little boy 
insisted. On the lawn below, down by the 
hedge of gloria mundi, he could see his two 


[ 93 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


small sisters with the young nurse girl. “I want 
Meriky to come up here and tell me a tale, if 
you’re going to sing to that old baby.” 

Aunt Jinsey went out on the gallery and called 
the nurse girl, rather sourly. Patricia and Isa- 
bel came with their attendant; and when the two 
little sisters were cuddled up on the foot of the 
couch, Pate graciously permitted America to 
put the hot brick under his aching ear before 
she began to tell them the story about the Little 
Bear’s Trousers. 

“Once dere was a little boy,” she began. 
“His ma was dead, an’ his pa live’ in one aidge 
of de Big Woods, whilst his grandma live’ clean 
’crost de woods on de t’other side. 

“De little boy’s pa used to mend his clothes 
de best he knowed how. But one day dere come 
a big hole in one de little boy’s trouser pockets, 
an’ his pa couldn’t mend hit. 

“ ‘Huh-uh, dat hole too much for me,’ de 
man say. ‘Hit’s shorely past man’s mendin’. 
Reckon you’ll have to take it to yo’ grandma,’ 
he say. ‘Run along, son, an’ git th’oo de woods 
’fore sun-down.’ 


[ 94 ] 


THE LITTLE BEAR’S TROUSERS 


“De little boy take de trousers un’neath his 
arm, an’ strike out. But hit was a long ways for 
a little feller — clean th’oo de Big Woods — an’ 
half-way ’crost, he got mighty tired. He feel 
like he ’bleege to lay down an’ sleep a spell. He 
done so, an’ when he wake up, dem trousers wuz 
gone — gone, suh!” 

America looked impressively about her. 
Pate was not only quiet, but he seemed fairly 
happy; the little girls were bubbling with in- 
terest. 

“Did some varmint carry them off, Meriky?” 
asked baby Isabel. 

The nurse girl nodded. 

“We cornin’ to dat,” she said. “We a-comin’ 
to dat right now. De boy git up an’ look all 
’bout him. No trousers dar. He run along 
back de way he come, a little piece. No trou- 
sers dar. Den he tuck his foot in his hand an’ 
put out a runnin’ for his grandma’s house. He 
didn’t run no great ways till he come ’pon a 
sight dat make him laugh till he most shook his- 
self to pieces. 

“Dar wuz a baby bear, trottin’ ’long on its 

[95] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

behind legs — an’ dat baby bear had trousers 
on! 

“De little boy dat ’stonish’, an’ dat tickled, dat 
he plumb fergit to be skeered ’bout de old 
mammy bear what mighty apt to come an’ ketch 
anybody dat pester wid her baby. 

“ ‘Hi! I want my trousers!’ de little boy hol- 
ler, as soon as he could say anything fer laughin’. 

“Wid dat, de little bear turn an’ look at de 
little boy. His face was all wrinkle’ up like 
Uncle Bohannon’s.” 

Uncle Bohannon was the coachman, and Aunt 
Jinsey’s husband. That worthy woman turned 
from where she was laying the baby in his crib, 
and glared at her young assistant. But Ameri- 
ca’s countenance was innocent and bland. 

“De little bear twist up his face like he ’bout 
to cry,” she said. “ ‘Is dese yo’ trousers?’ he 
whine, dest like dat. ‘Is dese yo’ trousy-ousy- 
ousers? I found ’em. I want ’em so bad — so 
dreffle — dreffle ba-a-ad!’ 

“De little boy ain’t got done laughin’ yit. 

“ ‘What you want ’em for?’ he ax. 

“ ‘I thunk ef I had trousers, I might grow up 
[96] 


THE LITTLE BEAR’S TROUSERS 


an’ be a little boy,’ say de baby bear. ‘An’ dese 
trousers has pockets in ’em, too.’ 

“An’ den de little boy, he see de little bear 
been puttin’ chinkapins in de pocket dat had a 
hole in it! De chinkapins all runnin’ down de 
trouser leg, an’ out over de bear’s foots. He 
’bout to tell de baby bear, an’ he ’bout to pick 
up a chinkapin an’ eat hit, when dey come a 
mighty big roarin’ an’ ragin’ in de bushes. Out 
bust de mammy bear, an’ ketch de little boy by 
de aidge o’ his jacket. She whirl him ’round 
three times, an’ th’ow him fur as she can send 
him. He come down un’neath dat very same 
bush whar he fust tuck an’ went to sleep. Dar 
he set up an’ look ’bout him. 

“No mammy bear, no baby bear — an’ no 
trousers! Ef de trousers been dar, he’d ’a’ 
thunk he’d dreamt hit. But dem trousers clean 
gone, an’ dat boy never found ’em no more. 
He pappy used to come home a-laughin’, some- 
times, an’ tell him dat he seen a little bear in de 
woods wid trousers on; but de little boy never 
see de baby bear no more, an’ never see his trou- 
sers again.” 




XVI 

MRS. PRAIRIE-DOG’S LODGERS 

T EXAS is a near-by land to the dwellers 
in the Southern States. Many of the 
poorer white people go there to mend 
their fortunes; and not a few of them come back 
from its plains, homesick for the mountains, and 
with these fortunes unmended. Daddy Laban 
had been a wanderer; and his travels had car- 
ried him as far afield as the plains of the South- 
west. The Randolph children liked, almost 
better than any others, the stories he brought 
home from these extensive travels. 

“De prairie-dog a mighty cur’ous somebody,” 
he began one day, when they asked him for a 
tale. “Hit lives in de ground, more samer dan 
a ground-hog. But dey ain’t come out for wood 
nor water; an’ some folks thinks dey goes plumb 
down to de springs what feeds wells. I has 
knowed dem what say dey go fur enough down 
[ 99 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


to find a place to warm dey hands — but dat ain’t 
de tale I’m tellin’. 

“A long time ago, dey was a prairie-dog what 
was left a widder, an’ she had a big fambly to 
keep up. ‘Oh, landy!’ she say to dem dat come 
to visit her in her ’diction, ‘what I.gwine do to 
feed my chillen?’ 

“De most o’ de varmints tell Miz. Prairie- 
Dog dat de onliest way for her to git along was 
to keep boarders. ‘You got a good home, an’ 
you is a good manager,’ dey say ; ‘you bound to 
do well wid a boardin’-house.’ 

“Well, Miz. Prairie-Dog done sent out de 
runners to run, de fliers to fly, de crawlers to 
crawl, an’ tell each an’ every dat she sot up a 
boardin’-house. She say she got room for one 
crawler and one flier, an’ dat she could take in 
a whole passel o’ runners. 

“Well, now, you knows a flier’s a bird — or hit 
mought be a bat. Ef you was lookin’ for little 
folks, hit mought be a butterfly. Miz. Prairie- 
Dog ain’t find no fliers what wants to live un’- 
neath de ground. But crawlers — bugs an’ 
worms an’ sich-like — dey mostly does live un’- 
[ ioo ] 


MRS. PRAIRIE-DOG’S LODGERS 


neath de ground, anyhow, an’ de fust pusson 
what come seekin’ house-room with Miz. 
Prairie-Dog was Brother Rattlesnake. 

“ ‘I dest been flooded out o’ my own house,’ 
Mr. Rattlesnake say; ‘an’ I like to look at your 
rooms an’ see ef dey suits me.’ 

“ ‘I show you de rooms,’ Miz. Prairie-Dog 
tell ’im. ‘I bound you gwine like ’em. I got 
room for one crawler, an’ you could be him; 
but—’ 

“Miz. Prairie-Dog look at her chillen. She 
ain’t say no more — dest look at dem prairie-dog 
gals and boys, an’ say no more. 

“Mr. Rattlesnake ain’t like bein’ called a 
crawler so very well ; but he looks at dem rooms, 
an’ ’low he’ll take ’em. Miz. Prairie-Dog got 
somethin’ on her mind, an’ ’fore de snake git 
away dat somethin’ come out. 

“ Ts shore an’ certain dat you an’ me can git 
along,’ she say, ‘ef — ’scuse me, suh; I don’t aim 
to make you mad — but — ef you vow an’ promish 
not to bite my chillen. I’ll have yo’ meals reg’- 
lar, so dat you won’t be tempted.’ 

“Old Mr. Rattlesnake powerful high-tem- 
[ ioi ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


pered — yas, law, he sho’ a mighty quick some- 
body on de trigger. Zip! he go off, dest like 
dat — zip! Br-r-r! 

“ ‘Tempted!’ he hiss at de prairie-dog boys 
an’ gals what been makin’ mud cakes all mornin’ 
(an’ dest about as dirty as you-all is after you 
do de same). ‘Tempted,’ he say. ‘I should 
hope not! Huh — uh! Well, I should shorely 
hope not!’ 

“For mind you, Brother Rattlesnake is a gen- 
terman, an’ belongs to de quality. He feels 
hisself a heap too biggity to bite prairie-dogs. 
So dat turned out all right. 

“De next what come to Miz. Prairie-Dog was 
a flier.” 

“A bird?” asked Patricia Randolph. 

“Yes, little mistis,” returned the old Indian. 
“One dese hyer little, round, brown squinch- 
owls, what allers quakes an’ quivers in dey 
speech an’ walk. 

“ ‘I gits so dizzy — izzy — wizzy up in de tops 
o’ de trees,’ de little brown owl say, as she swivel 
an’ shake. ‘An’ I wanted to git me a home 
down on de ground, so dat I could be sure, an’ 
[ 102 ] 


MRS. PRAIRIE-DOG’S LODGERS 


double sure, dat I wouldn’t fall. But dey is 
dem dat says ef I was down on de ground I 
might fall down a hole. Dat make me want to 
live in yo’ house. Hit’s down in de ground, 
ain’t hit? Ef I git down in yo’ house dey hain’t 
no place for me to fall off of, an’ fall down to, is 
dey?’ she ax. 

“Miz. Prairie-Dog been in de way o’ failin’ 
downstairs all her life; dat de onliest way she 
ever go inter her house — she fling up her hands 
an’ laugh as you pass her by, and she drap back 
in de hole. But she tell de little brown owl dat 
dey ain’t no place you could fall ef you go to 
de bottom end o’ her house. So, what wid a 
flier an’ a crawler, an’ de oldest prairie-dog boy 
workin’ out, she manage to make tongue and 
buckle meet. 

“I done told you de rattlesnake was a genter- 
man. He pay his way an’ let other folks alone. 
As he git on in years his disposition ain’t got no 
sweeter, to be sure, and along about August 
when he studyin’ on gettin’ him a new suit o’ 
clothes he liable to hit out an’ hurt dem what 
pester him; but, taken it by an’ large, Mrs. 

[ 103 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


Prairie-Dog found him good company an’ if he 
ever bit one of her chillen I ain’t heerd o’ it. 
Bein’ a widder she tuck nachelly to makin’ up 
matches betwixt her friends, but she never could 
marry off Mr. Rattlesnake and little Miz. 
Brown Owl; ’caze, sayin’ little an’ thinkin’ 
much, they dest naturally despised each other. 
And yit they ain’t never fuss; in de same house 
dey lives, and th’ee times a day dey ’bleege to 
look at each other ’crost de dinin’ table, and in 
de cool of de evenin’ when dey sets on de front 
po’ch dey ’bleege to rub elbows, yit dey ain’t 
never fuss to my knowin’s.” 

“Elbows,” giggled Pate, “a snake with el- 
bows! That’s almost as likely as snakes and 
birds living in the same place.” 

“Never you mind, little marster,” returned 
Daddy Laban with dignity. “No call to trou- 
ble ycfse’f about Mr. Rattlesnake’s elbows — 
time he strike yo’ company you’ll think he’s all 
elbows, he’s dat limber an’ quick movin’. As 
for prairie-dogs and owls and snakes livin’ in 
one house, I is went by a many a prairie-dog 
hole an’ seen de owl an’ de rattlesnake what 

[ 104] 


MRS. PRAIRIE-DOG’S LODGERS 


boards wid Miz. Prairie-Dog. Ef you was to 
go to Texas you’d see de same. But nobody in 
dat neck o’ woods ever knowed how dese folks 
come to live in one house.” 

“Who told you, Daddy Laban?” asked Pate 
Randolph. 

“My Injun gran’mammy,” returned the old 
man. “She told me a many a tale, when I lived 
wid my daddy’s people on de Cherokee Res’va- 
tion. Some time I gwine tell you ’bout de baby 
fawn what her daddy ketched for her when she’s 
a little gal. But run home now, honey chillens, 
or yo’ mammy done think Daddy Laban stole 
you an’ carried you plumb away.” 


[105] 









































































» 















XVII 


THE WEST WIND AND THE BEAR 
MERICA’S task was to get the three 



older children out of bed and dressed of 


1 V a morning. This she did under Aunt 
Jinsey’s supervision and direction, and you may 
be sure the older woman found occasion now 
and again to criticise her assistant. 

“You dest like a little bear, Marse Pate,” the 
young girl giggled. “I bound you like to sleep 
all de winter th’oo.” 

“Does a bear sleep all winter, Aunt Jinsey?” 
asked Pate, applying to the higher authority, as 
he grumblingly fastened his shoes. 

“Dey does sence de West Wind done piped 
old Mr. Bear to sleep one time,” returned Aunt 
Jinsey, good-humoredly. The baby lay across 
her knees, with his long white skirts trailing 
down to her foot, and she trotted him gently as 
she spoke. “Black gal,” she broke out with sud- 


[ I0 7 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


den fierceness, “what you let little Marse put 
his shoes on widout poligizin’ ’em for? You — 
wid yo’ talk ’bout bears; an’ lettin’ dese chillen 
go same as white trash!” 

“Never* mind the shoes!” cried Pate. “Let 
Meriky tell us about the bear.” 

“Meriky tell you ’bout de bear!” snorted Aunt 
Jinsey. “Ef she can’t tell a tale better dan what 
she kin dress a child, hit’ll be a mighty raggety 
tale.” 

“You tell us, then, Aunt Jinsey,” pleaded gen- 
tle little Patricia. “It was you that said you 
knew about the West Wind piping the bear to 
sleep. Tell us that tale.” 

Somewhat mollified, the old woman settled 
herself for the story, keeping a sharp eye on 
America, who was still busily polishing Pate’s 
shoes. 

“Long time ago, de fust bear he was young 
and foolish. He never slep’ all de winter long 
in a holler log, like bears does dese days ; an’ he 
was a mighty bad hand to backbite an’ carry 
tales. He tell everybody dat will listen to him 
dat de West Wind ain’t no singer. 

[ 108 ] 


THE WEST WIND AND THE BEAR 


“Now, de West Wind got de puttiest voice o’ 
anybody in de Big Woods. More dan dat, he 
make up all de songs what he sings, dest as he 
go ’long. 

“When he hear what dat impudous young 
bear say, he fly right straight to Mr. Bear, he 
did. 

“‘Oh, I ain’t no singer, ain’t I?’ he ax. 
‘Well, Mr. Bear, we kin call up all de critters 
in de Big Woods to jedge, an’ I kin sing you so 
fast asleep dat you won’t wake up ’fo’ spring.’ 

“‘Try hit,’ say Mr. Bear. ‘Uh-uh-uh!’ he 
grunt; ‘try hit — dest try hit!’ 

“So den de West Wind call all the critters to- 
gedder; an’ when dey ranged round to look on, 
he sing ’bout what bears love best. He had him 
a song ’bout ripe huckleberries, an’ honey drip- 
ping out de comb in de bee-tree. Oh, mind you, 
his song was sweet!” 

“I’ve heard the wind when it made me think 
of things like that,” said Pate. “But it never 
made me sleepy.” 

“De West Wind’s tune make little Mr. Brown 
Bear mighty sleepy,” said the old negress. “He 
[ 109 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


stand hit as long as he kin, an’ den he quile down 
in de holler tree very comfo’able an’ commence 
to snore. 

“All de critters laugh, but dat ain’t win de 
day for de West Wind, yit. He got to put Mr. 
Bear so plum’ fast asleep dat he won’t wake up 
tell spring. 

“So de West Wind pile leaves all ’bout de 
bear, an’ make him warm, so he snore softer an’ 
softer. De dry leaves done dey part; dey rushle 
a nice little chune to go wid de West Wind’s 
song; but still Mr. Bear was a-snorin’, an’ de 
West Wind know ’at when a bear snore he gwine 
wake up soon. 

“Den de West Wind call ’pon de rain; an’ de 
rain come an’ pat for de music. Pitter — patter 
— pit-pat. Dat how de rain sound on de leaves. 
Pitter — patter — pit-pat . Pitter — patter — pit- 
pat. But still Mr. Bear snore on. 

“Last of all, an’ best of all, to make a bear 
sleep, come Jack Frost wid his banjo. When de 
West Wind pipe a song, an’ de leaves rushle an’ 
play a chune to go wid hit, an’ de snow come, 
an’ Jack Frost’s banjo begin to snap an’ crackle 
[ no] 


THE WEST WIND AND THE BEAR 


de strings, dey ain’t no bear ever made kin stay 
awake. N aw, suh — nary bear ever made ! Dey 
dest plumb ’bleege to go to sleep. 

“Mr. West Wind bend down close over Mr. 
Bear. He sleep like a dead bear. He ain’t 
snore no more. Den de West Wind an’ de rain 
an’ de frost take a-holt o’ hands an’ fly away 
laughin’. An’ de leaves say, ‘We’ll stay hyer 
an’ watch him tell spring.’ 

“So it was wid dat first bear; so it been wid 
every bear to dis good day. Dey might like to 
stay awake an’ dance in de field, an’ play snow- 
ball wid de critters; but when de West Wind 
begin to pipe, and de rain begin to pit-a-pat, 
pit-a-pat, an’ de snow come — most of all, when 
Jack Frost play de banjo, — de bear ’bleege to go 
sleep in a holler tree an’ sleep tell spring.” 


[m] 



XVIII 


THE COW THAT LOVED PERSIMMONS 


B ABY ISABEL cried because she could 
not have coffee for her breakfast. 
“Look at yo’ ma,” chided Aunt Jin- 
sey. “Her’s a big grown-up white lady, an’ kin 
have anything she a mind to, an’ yit she don’t 
drink coffee. Take yo’ buttermilk, honey, an’ 
see how good hit taste. Aunt Jinsey done fetch 
hit right from de churn.” 

But the baby did not want buttermilk, nor 
anything else that she could have. 

“I’m going to ’tarve myse’f to def,” she de- 
clared, “an’ nen mebbe I can have coffee.” 

“Heap o’ folks only hones after dat what’s 
hard to git,” commented the old nurse, philo- 
sophically, as she untied the bib tapes, and lifted 
her small charge down from the high-chair. 
“Des like a cat what love to eat fish, an’ ain’t 
willin’ to git her feet wet.” 

[ 113 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“Oh, is there a story about that?” demanded 
the older children, Pate and Patricia, as they 
trooped out of the dining-room with Aunt Jin- 
sey. “If there’s a story about it, do tell it to us.” 
And the little sister added by way of encourage- 
ment, “It’ll make the baby feel so much better.” 

“I ain’t knowin’ to any story ’bout a cat goin’ 
fishin’,” the old negress returned ; “but I kin tell 
ye a fine tale ’bout a cow what love’ ’simmons.” 

And while the little folks sat on the broad 
gallery, waiting for the schoolroom to be opened 
for their morning lesson, Aunt Jinsey related 
this story: 

“I ain’t sayin’ why nor which ’bout how dis- 
hyer cow came to know dat she love ripe ’sim- 
mon. Mebbe somebody done git her some; 
mebbe she climb a tree sometime an’ git a bait 
on ’em herse’f; but ripe ’simmon was what ol’ 
Miz. Cow study ’bout day an’ night, time de fust 
frost come, an’ dey gittin’ sweet an’ mushy. 

“One day de old cow lady was grazin’ ’round 
de aidge o’ de Big Woods, studyin’ ’bout how 
greatly she did hone for de ’simmons on a high 
’simmon-tree, when she spied Mr. Crow jest 
[ ” 4 ] 


THE COW THAT LOVED PERSIMMONS 


lightin’ on a branch, dyked out in his reflation 
black suit o’ clothes, an’ lookin’ for somebody 
what he kin pester. De ol’ cow been standin’ 
’bout under dat tree mighty nigh a hour, waitin’ 
for de wind to shake de ’simmons down. Now 
she say, mighty pleasant an’ friendly, 

“ ‘Oh, Mr. Crow, I so pleased for to meet you. 
I’s so glad for to greet you. Will you kindly 
do me a favor?’ 

“ ‘Ef what you ax don’t cost nothin’, an’ you’ll 
do twict ez much fer me,’ Mr. Crow made an- 
swer. 

“Miz. Cow try to look ez pretty ez she kin; 
she sort o’ smile up at Mr. Crow like dis.” 
Aunt Jinsey gave a somewhat realistic reproduc- 
tion of a cow smiling, which set all three chil- 
dren to giggling hilariously. “ ‘I dest ax you 
to fly up higher in de tree, wid yo’ two strong, 
strong wings,’ she say. ‘I dest ax you to pick me 
off some ’simmons wid yo’ sharp, sharp beak, an’ 
th’ow ’em down to me.’ 

“ ‘An’ what does I git by dat?’ ax de crow. 
‘Ef ’simmons is good, I reckon I better eat ’em 
all myse’f.’ 

[US] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“ ‘Oh, Mr. Crow, don’t speak to me so un- 
kind,’ say de pore cow. ‘Dey’s seb’m bushly 
basketfuls mo’ ’simmons in dat dar tree dan you 
could eat in a month o’ Sundays. ’Sides ’sim- 
mons is plumb pizen to crows. ’Sides dis hyer is 
my birthday, an’ I bound ye I ought to have a 
bait o’ ’simmons fer to mark de time. ’Sides I’ll 
do whatever you wish in return for yo’ kindness.’ 

“ ‘Haw ! Haw ! Haw !’ Dat de way de crow 
laugh. ‘Haw! Haw! Haw! What could you 
do for me, you great, big, clumsy, heavy-steppin’ 
somebody? You ain’t got no wings. You ain’t 
got no fedders. How you gwine do favors to a 
crow?’ 

“Wid dat, Mr. Crow fly high up in de tall 
’simmon-tree an’ commence eatin’ ’simmons. 
But mind you, he ain’t pick for de ripe ones. 
You ’member dat a ripe ’simmon look right 
little, an’ swivelly, an’ dark-colored, an’ mean. 
An’ Mr. Crow sock his beak into de green ’sim- 
mons, what look so big, an’ slick, an’ rosy, an’ 
pretty. An’ when he bite de green ’simmons, 
dey bite him back again. 

“Mr. Crow ain’t like dat greatly; yit when he 

[n6] 



a 


‘Oh, Mr. Crow, Don’t Speak to Me so Unkind 




[ Page ri6 ] 























































































































































































































* 










THE COW THAT LOVED PERSIMMONS 


look down un’neath de tree an’ see pore ol’ Miz. 
Cow settin’ dar cryin’ big cow tears, wid her eyes 
rolled up at ’im, he feel some better; ’caze dey 
ain’t no crow ever wore fedders dat didn’t love 
to pester an’ torment somebody. 

“ ‘I could do you a favor right now,’ say de 
cow, a-sobbin’ an’ snubbin’ an’ ketchin’ her 
breath like a child what been talked to wid a 
hickory. 

“ ‘I ain’t axin’ no favors from you,’ de crow 
make answer. Wid all dis jawleecious fruit, I 
ain’t needin’ no favors from a ol’ cow lady.’ 

“ Well, I ’bleege to tell ye, anyhow,’ say kind- 
hearted ol’ Miz. Cow, ‘dat dem dar what yo’ 
eatin’ is green ’simmons, an’ ef ye eats many on 
’em, dey gwine to set up a fuss in yo’ inside.’ 

“De crow bawl out laughin’, he did; but all 
de same, he commence to feel monstrous quare 
in his in’ards. Dey was a cur’ous drawin’ an’ 
puckerin’ goin’ on in ’im, tell he ’most thought 
he’d have to spit hisse’f out — leastwise, dat’s de 
way he tell it atterwards. 

‘“Haw! Haw! Haw!’ he say. ‘Ouch! 
Wow! I’s pizened!’ an’ he clap claw to whar 

c 117 1 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


de cur’ous feelin’s was, an’ holler tell you could 
hyer him all over de Big Woods. 

“Den he git a most turrible, turrible fit. 
Yaas — law; right in dar ’mongs de ’simmons he 
have dat fit, an’ hit’s shore a sight! Ez he go 
humpin’ an’ bumpin’ an’ thumpin’ an’ jumpin’ 
’round th’oo de branches, he nachelly knock off 
every ripe ’simmon dat was dar, ’caze de ripe 
’simmons parts easy, an’ de green ones don’t 
leave de stem. 

“ ‘Uh-huh!’ say ol’ Miz. Cow, gittin’ up from 
her knees, an’ dryin’ her eyes on her pocket 
handkacher. ‘Uh-huh! hyer come de answer to 
my pray’r. Hyer come my birthday feast.’ 

“An’ she never once turnt her head to see 
whether Mr. Crow die in de middle o’ his fit, 
or whether he git well an’ crawl off. Dat was 
her birthday — or so she say — an’ she des’ eat, 
an’ eat, an’ eat more ’simmons dan she ever got 
a chanct at before in her life.” 


t 


C n8 ] 


XIX 


WHEN THE DONKEY FOUND A VOICE 



HE ancient and honorable donkey who 


had carried little Patricia Randolph in 


A her babyhood, was to be superseded by a 
Shetland pony, bought for Pate, the second 


child. 


“Never mind, Jinny,” little Isabel comforted 
the disconsolate looking animal. “Never mind, 
honey,” presenting a big bunch of sugar-cane, 
which was promptly accepted. “I loves you. 
I’ll love you when the Sheltie comes, even if no- 
body else don’t.” 

Jinny ate the sugar-cane, then solemnly raised 
her big head and brayed for more. It was a 
trick the children had taught her; but, with a 
pony in prospect, it seemed to them a rather un- 
couth one. 

“That’s why I dislike her most,” Pate said 


[ 119 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


scornfully. “She makes such an awful noise.” 
Pate was to have the pony, you remember. 

“Dat dest what de Man say ayfter he go an’ 
teach his jinny to speak,” giggled America. 

“Oh, is it a tale?” asked the children. “Tell 
it to us.” 

“In de early times,” America opened, “plumb 
back dar in de beginnin’ days, jinnies ain’t had 
no speech. De Man he own one, an’ he say to 
de Woman, ‘My jinny work, an’ my jinny pull 
de plow; my jinny tote me forth an’ back; she 
eat reg’lar, an’ she drink reg’lar; but she carry 
a mournful countenance, an’ she ain’t never 
spoke for to tell me her ruthers. I wusht my 
jinny would find a voice, Woman, I shore does.’ 

“Now, in dem days, hit dest like hit is dese 
days an’ times; de old Woman got mo’ sense dan 
de old Man. She say to him, 

“ ‘Ain’t you always complainin’ ’caze I talks 
too much? Better let well enough alone, an’ be 
glad dat yo’ jinny, ef she ain’t speak to pleasure 
you, also ain’t speak to displeasure you. You 
git her to talkin’, she mought not be so easy to 
hush ez I is.’ 

[ 120 ] 


WHEN THE DONKEY FOUND A VOICE 


“ ‘Oh, you?’ say de ol’ Man. ‘You allers 
talkin’ ’boutyo’ ruthers an’ my failin’s — ’course I 
ain’t got no use for yo 9 speech. But my hoss he 
whicker; my cow she bawl; my dog bark when 
he please; my cat mew when she displease; and 
I wants my jinny to find a voice — I does.’ 

“De Man study an’ study ’bout dis hyer busi- 
ness, an’ he all de time believin’ dat ef de jinny 
was right surprised she’d speak out. 

“De old Man an’ de Woman live in de moun- 
tains, whar neighbors is few an’ fur between; 
he make up he mind dat he gwine carry his 
donkey to town, an’ ax de doctors can dey give 
her a voice. 

“De old Woman spoke ag’in’ dat; she said her 
say; an’ yit she ain’t persuaded him to give it 
up. So he tuck an’ tuck him a load o’ sich truck 
as grows in de mountains, an’ hauled hit down 
to de town. De last night he camp in de woods, 
an’ by sun-up he come out on de hill-top ’n’ dar 
was de town — de fust town dat jinny ever see! 
She stand on top de hill an’ look at hit. She 
flop her years forth, an’ flop her years back. 
She look, an’ she flop ; she flop, an’ she look. 

[ i2i ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“ ‘Speak up!’ say de Man. ‘What you study- 
in’ ’bout? How you likes de town an’ de looks 
o’ hit? Speak up, my jinny. Ain’t nary soul 
’bout to hyer ye but dest me — speak out yo’ mind, 
my jinny!’ 

“Den de jinny find a voice. She say, dest like 
dis” — America threw up her head, rolled her 
eyes and intoned solemnly — 

“ ‘Good Lawd, look at de hou-ou-ouses ! 

Good Lawd, look at de hou-ou-ouses! 

Good Lawd, look at de hou-ou-ouses! 

Look at de hou-ou-ouses! * 

Look at de hou-ou-ouses! 

Look at de hou-ou-ouses! 

In town — in town!’ ” 

The little Randolphs shouted with laughter. 

“That’s what our jinny says,” Isabel con- 
firmed; for America’s loud, bawling tones had 
given a very funny imitation of a donkey’s bray, 
the final, “In town — in town!” being grunted 
out exactly as the donkey always closes his 
speech. 

“Dat dest what all jinnies been sayin’ from 
dat time on,” America agreed. “But de Man 
[ 122 ] 


WHEN THE DONKEY FOUND A VOICE 


ain’t like it, now he got it. He dest like Marse 
Pate. He say he wusht his jinny hadn’t found 
her voice. An’ de Woman, she say, ‘I done told 
you so !’ dest like she do dese days an’ times.” 


[ 123 ] 














XX 


THE LAZY GOOSE 

A MERICA came running one morning to 
call the three children and tell them that 
a wild goose had stopped among the 
fowls in the barnyard. Pate, Patricia, and little 
Isabel pelted away down the slope toward the 
chicken-yard, where Aunt Viney, who always 
had charge of the fowls, was scattering cane- 
seed. There he stood, slim and dark and differ- 
ently shaped from the other geese, yet plainly 
kin to them, and gobbling his share of the break- 
fast with evident relish. 

“Oh, he’s a visitor,” cried Patricia, “and they 
ought to be more polite to him”; for a big 
speckled rooster had just dashed in ahead of the 
newcomer and tried to eat up all the seed in 
sight. 

“Never you mind, honey,” Aunt Viney reas- 
sured the little girl. “Dat wild feller got strong 

[ 125 1 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


wing; he gwine be de biggest frog in de puddle, 
long ez he stay hyer.” 

“He gets his strong wings from flying so far,” 
said Pate. “If he was out in the open, Father 
or Cousin Bolivar would shoot him; but he’s 
home-free here.” 

“Will he stay always, Aunt Viney?” asked 
Isabel. 

“No’m, Miss Baby; I ’spect he pick up an’ 
go when he gits him a good bait o’ cane-seed. 
Mebbe he’ll stay a week — sometimes dese hyer 
wild fellers does.” 

As they turned back to the house America an- 
nounced that she knew a tale about a wild goose, 
and it was straightway demanded; for her at- 
traction above that of Aunt Jinsey, the head 
nurse, was that she could tell so many stories 
about animals. 

“Hit was like dis,” she began. “Dey was 
once a wild goose dat was lazy. Wild geeses is 
mostly de uppin’est an’ a-doin’est folks what dey 
is; but dis hyer Mr. Goose was ez slow ez mo- 
lasses at Christmas. When dey got to fly a long 
way, he set on de ground an’ say he got de back- 
[ i2< > ] 


THE LAZY GOOSE 


ache, an’ de leg-ache, an’ de toe-ache, an’, more 
specially an’ mostly, de wing-ache. Dis hyer 
Mr. Goose ain’t like to hunt for he rations. 
One day he come to a plantation where dey keep 
tame geeses, same as we-all do. He fly down 
’mongst ’em, dest ezackly like de wild goose fly 
down dis mornin’, an’ he’p hisself to what all de 
udder fowls had to eat. 

“ ‘Huh,’ he say, well as he could for havin’ 
his mouth full, ‘you folks lives mighty fat.’ 

“At dat, ol’ Mr. Gander he up an’ whisper, 
‘For de gracious sake, don’t say fat! Hit’s de 
trouble o’ our lives to keep from gittin’ fat 
’nough dat de humans will be wantin’ to eat us.’ 

“Mr. Wild Goose ain’t hearken to dis like he 
ort. He a great somebody to brag, like most do- 
nothin’ folks, an’ he sot in for to tell dem tame 
geeses o’ all de whars he been, an’ all de fine 
things he done seed; an’ he keep on tell de 
woman come for to feed de fowls. She let on 
like she ain’t see Mr. Wild Goose at all, ’caze 
she ain’t want to skeer him. When she gone, he 
squar’ hisself in de middle o’ de pan o’ dough, 
an’ eat tell he ’most choked; an’ den he say: 

[ 127 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“‘Is dat what you call a human? Do she 
wait ’pon yo’ wid yo’ rations every day? Do she 
fetch hit to you, an’ all what you-all got to do is 
des’ to eat hit? Well, I b’lieve I’ll stay hyer. 
I’m plumb wore to fedders an’ bones travelin’ 
round an’ wingin’ so far, huntin’ rations for my- 
self. Of course dis ain’t no such a place as I’m 
used to, but I b’lieve I’ll stay.’ 

“Hit dest so happen’ dat de very next day 
was goose-pickin’ time. You mind how Aunt 
Viney an’ Aunt Clorindy ties up dey heads an’ 
picks off de geese’s fedders to stuff yo’ pillers an’ 
beds?” 

The other children remembered it well, but 
Isabel was to see that ceremony for the first time 
this spring. 

“Well, honey chillen, de woman come out wid 
her head tied up, an’ drive de geeses into de 
pickin’-shed. An’ huh, law! How dey all hol- 
ler an’ run when dey see what she gwine do! 

“ ‘What now?’ ax Mr. Wild Goose. He git- 
tin’ dest a little bit oneasy-like over de looks o’ 
things. 


[128] 


THE LAZY GOOSE 


“ ‘She gwine pull our fedders out an’ tote ’em 
off,’ old Mr. Gander tell him. 

“ ‘Is dat so?’ Mr. Wild Goose ax. ‘I don’t 
b’lieve dat would agree wid my back-ache, nor 
yit do any good to my leg-ache; I bound hit 
gwine be bad for my toe-ache ; an’ de very thinks 
of hit gives me de wing-ache.’ 

“Wid dat he flop he wings, he do, an’ fly off 
to jine de wild geeses. But, mind you, he ain’t 
tell de wild geeses why he come back. He say 
to dem dat dis hyer place where he stopped de 
folks was quality, for true; dat dey had a waiter 
for to serve dey meals reg’lar; an’ dey was so 
uppish dey change dey fedders every spring; 
an’, more dan dat, dey had a body-sarvant to take 
off de old fedders for ’em. 

“He git de wild geeses in sich a notion o’ de 
place, dat when dey come a-past hit de next fall 
dey all light down in de barnyard, Mr. Wild 
Goose in de middle o’ de bunch. 

“Now de man what live on dat plantation 
ain’t got de same notion dat yo’ pa have — he 
shoot a wild goose wherever he can find hit. 

[ 129 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


He turn loose on dem wild geeses wid he gun; 
but de onliest one he kill was de lazy goose what 
start de trouble — an’ sarve him good an’ right!” 


[ 130] 


XXI 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT’S GRANDMOTHER 

O F all the animal stories which America 
told to the children, they liked best 
those about Sonny Bunny Rabbit. 

“You listen now, Marse Pate, an’ Miss Patty 
an’ my baby child, an’ I gwine tell you de best 
tale yit, ’bout de rabbit,” she said, one lazy sum- 
mer afternoon when they were tired of playing 
marbles with chinaberries. 

“You see, de fox he mighty hongry all de time 
for rabbit meat; yit, at de same time, he ’fraid 
to buck up ’g’inst a old rabbit, an’ he always 
pesterin’ after de young ones. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s granny was sick, an’ 
Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s mammy want to send her 
a mess o’ sallet. She put it in a poke, an’ hang 
de poke round de little rabbit boy’s neck. 

“ ‘Now, my son,’ she say, ‘you tote dis sallet 

[ 131 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


to yo’ granny, an’ don’t stop to play wid none o’ 
de critters in de Big Woods.’ 

iC ‘Yassum, mammy,’ say Sonny Bunny Rabbit. 

“ ‘Don’t you pass de time o’ day wid no foxes,’ 
say Mammy Rabbit. 

“ ‘Yassum, mammy,’ say Sonny Bunny Rabbit. 
And wid dat he put out. Mammy Rabbit watch 
him fur as she could see him. Time he got out 
o’ her sight, an’ as he was passin’ some thick 
chinkapin bushes, up hop a big red fox an’ told 
him howdy. 

“ ‘Howdy!’ say Sonny Bunny Rabbit. He 
ain’t study ’bout what his mammy tell him now. 
He ’bleege to stop an’ make a miration at bein’ 
noticed by sech a fine pusson as Mr. Fox. ‘Hit’s 
a fine day — an’ mighty growin’ weather, Mr. 
Fox.’ 

“ ‘Hit am dat,’ say de fox. ‘Yaas, suh, hit 
sho’ly am dat. An’ whar you puttin’ out for, ef 
I mought ax?’ he inquire, mighty slick an’ easy. 

“Now right dar,” said America impressively, 
“am whar dat little rabbit boy fergit his teachin’. 
He act like he ain’t know nothin’ — an’ ain’t 
know dat right good. ’Stead o’ sayin’, ‘I’s 
[ 132 ] 



u 


‘Is Yo’ Granny Big?’ Ax de Fox 




[ Page 133] 






























































SONNY BUNNY’S GRANDMOTHER 


gwine whar Us gwine — an’ dat’s whar I’s gwine,’ 
an’ den h’istin’ hisself out o’ dar fast ez he can 
put foot to de ground — ’stead o’ doin’ dat he 
answer right back: ‘Dest ’cross de hill, suh. 
Won’t you walk wid me, suh? Proud to have 
yo’ company, suh.’ 

“ ‘An’ who-all is you gwine see on t’other side 
de hill?’ ax Mr. Fox. 

“ ‘My granny,’ answer Sonny Bunny Rabbit. 
‘I totin’ dis sallet to her.’ 

“ ‘Is yo’ granny big?’ ax de fox. ‘Is yo’ 
granny old?’ he say. ‘Is yo’ granny mighty 
pore? Is yo’ granny tough?’ An’ he ain’t bein’ 
nigh so slick an’ sof’ an’ easy any mo’ by dis time 
— he gittin’ mighty hongry an’ greedy. 

“Right den an’ dere Sonny Bunny Rabbit 
wake up. Yaas, law! He come to he senses. 
He know mighty well an’ good dat a pusson de 
size o’ Mr. Fox ain’t got no reason to ax ef he 
granny tough, less’n he want to git he teef in her. 
By dat he recomember what his mammy done 
told him. He look all ’bout. He ain’t see no 
he’p nowhars. Den hit come in Sonny Bunny 
Rabbit’s mind dat de boys on de farm done sot a 
[ i33 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


trap down by de pastur’ fence, a-yiste’day. Ef 
he kin git Mr. Fox to jump inter dat trap, his 
life done save. 

“ ‘Oh, my granny mighty big,’ he say; ‘but 
dat’s ’caze she so fat she cain’t run. She hain’t 
so mighty old, but she sleep all de time; an’ I 
ain’t know is she tough or not — you dest better 
come on an’ find out,’ he holler. Den he start 
off on er long, keen jump. 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit run as hard as he could. 
De fox run after, ’most nippin’ his heels. Sonny 
Bunny Rabbit run by de place whar de fox-trap 
done sot, an’ all kivered wid leaves an’ dry grass, 
an’ dar he le’p high in de air — an’ over it. Mr. 
Fox ain’t know dey ary trap in de grass; an’ 
blam! he stuck he foot squar’ in it! 

“‘Oh-ow-ow! Hi-hi-hi! Hi-yi! Yi-yi-yi !’ 
bark de fox. ‘Come back hyer, you rabbit trash, 
an’ he’p me out o’ dis trouble!’ he holler. 

“ ‘Dat ain’t no trouble,’ say Sonny Bunny Rab- 
bit, jumping high in de grass. ‘Dat my granny, 
what I done told you ’bout. Ain’t I say she so 
fat she cain’t run? She dest love company so 
[ 134 ] 


SONNY BUNNY’S GRANDMOTHER 


powerful well, dat I ’spect she holdin’ on to you 
to hear you talk.’ 

“An’ de fox talk,” America giggled, as she 
looked about on her small audience. “He 
’lowed he was gwine to eat Sonny Bunny Rab- 
bit’s granny; but now hit look like to him Sonny 
Bunny Rabbit’s granny ’bout to eat off his laig. 
An’ fur as de rabbit boy kin hear de fox he hol- 
ler’ at de trap, jest a-goin’ on scand’lous at hit. 

“But Sonny Bunny Rabbit streak it to he 
granny’s wid de mess o’ sallet, an’ home ag’in 
straight ez he kin go, sayin’ nothin’ to nobody.” 


[i35] 



XXII 


WHY THE WOODPECKER WEARS A SPOTTED 
COAT 



MERICA was trying to get Patty dressed 


for breakfast; both of the other children 


1 V had gone downstairs, and Aunt Jinsey 
in the next room could be heard laying out the 
clothes for the baby’s bath. 

“Mother said I could wear white when Cou- 
sin Mollie comes to visit me, and I guess Cousin 
Mollie’s coming this afternoon,” suggested the 
little girl, and America obediently spread a 
plain white frock on the bed. 

“But then I’ll get it all dirty before Mollie 
comes, and have to change,” ruminated Patty. 
“Meriky, I believe I’d rather wear my sailor- 


suit.” 


The white frock went back in the drawer, and 
a blue duck sailor-suit took its place. 

“That old collar hurts my neck. Give me my 


[ i37 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


pink gingham,” directed the small mistress, as 
she contemplated the stiffly starched duck blouse. 

“Good land, Miss Patty! Is you sattified 
now?” inquired America, diving deep in the 
drawer for the pink gingham. “An’ if you is, 
is you gwine to stay sattified — dat what I want 
to know? Time I gits dis hyer pink gingham 
coat hunted up, is you gwine think ’bout suthin’ 
else you ruther have? You better mind out; 
first thing you know you’ll come by a spotted 
coat, same as Miss Polly Pecker-wood.” 

“I’ll be satisfied with the pink one if you’ll 
tell me a tale about the woodpecker while you’re 
dressing me,” bargained Patty. 

“I’ll shore do dat,” grinned America com- 
fortably. “You see hit was dis-a-way. ’Course 
you know dat in de beginnin’ times dey had to 
have all de varmints an’ birds up an’ settle hit 
’bout dey coats an’ dey names. Dey named de 
cow, dey named de horse, dey named each an’ 
every; an’ what each was called each bound to 
answer to. When hit comes to givin’ out coats, 
and work around to Miss Polly Pecker-wood’s 
turn, she des’ try herself about gittin’ what suited 
[138] 


THE WOODPECKER’S SPOTTED COAT 

her ruthers. She stand up before de one dat 
was givin’ out coats an’ she say, ‘Put me in white, 
please, sir; den ef ever I gets to be a bride, I’ll 
have de right wearin’s. Put me in white.’ So 
dey turn in an’ begin on dat no ’count somebody 
wid white fedders.” 

The nurse girl’s laughing eye rolled toward 
the drawer where lay the white linen frock, and 
Patty giggled a little. 

“Ain’t no mo’ sot in wid white befo’ de 
pecker-wood git another idy. 

“ ‘Black is de most respectablest color what 
anybody can wear,’ she say. ‘Black ain’t never 
fade, nor show de dirt. Would you mind to put 
me on a black coat, please, sir?’ 

“Well, dey couldn’t take out de white fedders 
what was on, so dey sot in dese hyer black ones 
against ’em, an’ got a little ways wid black when 
the pecker-wood bird bust out an’ say, ‘An’ yet 
ef white git dirty easy, hit wash easy too. I 
b’lieve in my soul I’ll take white.’ 

“White it was tell Miss Polly begun to be 
right smartly kivered. Den she twist an’ turn 
to look at her back, an’ say, ‘Black make a body 
[ x 39 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


look mo’ slimmer, an’ mo’ gracefuller. I wusht 
to my granny I’d a-stuck to black.’ 

“De words wasn’t rightly out o’ her beak tell 
black it was again, an’ she stood it tell she begun 
to think what would happen ef she was bidden 
to a ball. 

“ ‘Nobody dance in black,’ she say. An’ she 
fergit dat she ain’t knowin’ any dancing steps, 
nor none o’ her kin ever been to a ball since dey 
come out o’ egg-shells. ‘Shore — nobody ever 
dance in black,’ she say, an’ she call for white 
again. 

“White fedders flew for a while. Den she 
say, ‘Oh, landy! S’pose I was to marry, an’ my 
ol’ man was to die, what I gwine to wear for 
mournin’? Hit’s quare I never thunk of hit. 
Widders cain’t wear white coats! Put me in 
black, for de goodness’ sake — put me in black!’ ” 

By this time America’s swift hands had 
braided the brown hair and tied the pink ribbon 
in place and she was buttoning the pink frock 
down the back as she wound up, evidently con- 
densing and abridging Miss Polly Pecker- 
[ J 40] 


THE WOODPECKER’S SPOTTED COAT 

wood’s sartorial vagaries because they were no 
longer useful to herself. 

“Dey was most up to her neck now,” the 
nurse-girl said, “an’ she find a reason fer black 
an’ she find a reason fer white, an’ she change 
her mind every minute ; tell when at last de fed- 
ders was in place Miss Polly Pecker-wood got 
a spotted coat — dest like you see her at dis day 
an’ time. Black an’ white spotted she was from 
wing-tip to tail-tip. ‘Great day in de mawn- 
in’l’ she say. ‘Don’t I look scan’lous solemn? 
’Pears like to me I’d be more become ef dey wuz 
a red sunbonnet on my haid. Ain’t you givin’ 
out no red sunbonnets dis mornin’, please, sir?’ 

“Dey gittin’ mighty tired o’ Miss Polly 
Pecker- wood’s goin’s on by dis time, so dey make 
no words about hit, but dest give her a red sun- 
bonnet along wid her black an’ white spotted 
caliker coat. But her mind ain’t settled by dat. 
She talkin’ ’bout dat matter yit. You listen to 
her once, wid her pokey-dot frock an’ her red 
sunbonnet. When she drum on a tree an’ ax de 
birds in de Big Woods is dey at home she let 
[ Hi ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

in to tell ’em why she started on black, an’ 
changed off on white again. She still got dat 
sort o’ mind. She spotted in her coat, ’caze she 
spotted in her wits. She one o’ dese critters dat 
feel like ’splainin’ something all de time. Lis- 
ten, or not listen when you’s out in de Big 
Woods, you gwine hyer Miss Polly Pecker- 
wood tellin’ how she come by a spotted coat.” 


[ H2 ] 


XXIII 


THE BEAVERS’ TWO WISHES 

O NE morning when the three children 
went down to Uncle Bergen’s cabin to 
see Daddy Laban, they found him trim- 
ming and polishing a cow-horn to make a 
powder-holder for his host. While he worked 
he related to Pate, Patricia and Isabel the story 
of how the beaver came by the personal pecul- 
iarities of his figure and fur. 

“No, little marse an’ little missies, de beaver 
ain’t always have dat flat tail what you see on 
him now; nor yet, he ain’t always have such a 
fine fur coat. Time been when he mo’ samer 
dan a lizard — jest betwicher an’ betwix-like. 
In dem days an’ times de Great Spirit walk in 
de Big Woods like a human; an’ he made de 
green tree to stand an’ de dry tree to fall; he 
make de water to run downhill, an’ de grass for 
to grow in its season. He attend to every critter 
[i43] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


in de Big Woods, an’ know its ways an’ its 
works. He was de king o’ de Big Woods befo’ 
the drizzly bear was called king. 

“One evenin’ dis here Great Spirit come to a 
stream an’ find hit so high dat he couldn’t git 
acrost. 

“ ‘Hold on, please, sir,’ holler de beaver what 
live on de far bank o’ the branch; ‘hold on, 
please, sir, an’ lemme cut down a tree for to 
make you a foot-log.’ 

“So de beaver call his old woman, an’ dey set 
in wid dey sharp teef an’ gnaw down a tree in 
no time, so dat the king o’ the Big Woods went 
over to yon-side dry-foot. 

“It been late, an’ de beaver pester de Great 
Spirit mightily to pass de night wid ’im. De 
beaver’s old woman she whirl in an’ cook a fine 
supper, an’ de two critters wait upon de Great 
Spirit hand an’ foot — which is to say, honey 
chillen, wid all four o’ dey paws. 

“When de king had done et, an’ was restin’ 
hisself an’ smokin’ o’ his pipe, he git so pleased 
dat he tell de beaver an’ his old woman he’ll give 
’em both a wish, an’ it shall come to pass. 

1 144] 


THE BEAVERS’ TWO WISHES 


“ Then I’ll wish first,’ say Old Man Beaver. 
Wid dat he turn to de old woman an’ shake he 
fist at her an’ say, When I git done wishin’ I 
gwine tell you what to wish.’ 

“Old Mammy Beaver look down her nose, an’ 
ain’t say nothin’, ’caze she used to that sort o’ 
treatment. But de Great Spirit laugh till de 
wind in de tree-tops take up de song, an’ a gale 
blow de leaves all about. 

“ ‘No, no,’ say the king o’ the Big Woods. 
‘Ladies first,’ he say.” 

Daddy Laban looked over his spectacles at the 
children. 

“Den an’ dar was de beginnin’ o’ manners in 
de Big Woods — any kind o’ manners — ’caze up 
to dat day an’ time the critters been goin’ by 
which was de biggest an’ which could whip. 

“So Old Mammy Beaver study an’ she study. 
She sorter skeered to make a wish widout her 
old man say so; but after a while she manage to 
git out: ‘Please, sir, Mr. King an’ Great Spirit, 
I mightily like to have a long trail to my dress, 
like I been told de ladies does in de king’s 
palace.’ 


1 145 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“Dat what she say, an’ dat all she say; an’ Old 
Man Beaver look like somebody done give him 
a dose o’ swamproot tea, his face so twist up. 
Mammy Beaver think dat he mad ’caze she 
going to have a trail an’ he not going to share 
it; so she say, right hasty-like: ‘An’ all my 
fambly, please, sir. De mens an’ de womens an’ 
de little baby beavers — let ’em all have trails to 
dey frocks, please, sir.’ You see, poor Old 
Mammy Beaver was a mighty good-hearted 
somebody, an’ she wanted for to share her 
blessin’s. 

“Hit make Old Man Beaver madder dan ever 
when he find a great tail spreadin’ out behind 
him — a tail what he ain’t never ax for nor de- 
sire. He so mad he cain’t see straight. 

“‘My land!’ he whoop out, whirlin’ round 
upon de old woman. ‘I’s sorry I wedded you!’ 
Den the big, flat tail trip him up, ’caze he ain’t 
used to it, an’ he fell flat upon his face. Mind! 
don’t ask me how mad Old Man Beaver was, 
’caze I ain’t got de words by me to tell of it! 

“ ‘You done it now!’ he say, ‘wid yo’ wishin’. 
Ain’t you got no sense, no time? Why didn’t 
[146] 


THE BEAVERS’ TWO WISHES 


you ask for fur coats to cover us from the flies — 
all of us, each an’ every beaver — instead o’ dese 
here pesky fool tails?’ 

“De Great Spirit mighty weary of hearing 
Mr. Beaver hold forth. 

“ ‘Dat yo’ wish, is hit?’ he say, tol’able short, 
to him; an’ he den an’ dar put upon de beaver 
an’ all his ginerations de thickest fur coat of any 
critter in de Big Woods. 

“When he rise to take his way in the mornin’ 
he look at dem two beavers. Dey favor, jest 
like you see ’em now in the picters, an’ like I 
seen ’em, many an’ many a time, swimmin’ 
in de branch an’ settin’ on de bank. De Great 
Spirit laugh again when he look at ’em. A 
body ’bleege to laugh at a beaver: hit sich a 
curious, foolish somebody. 

“ ‘Well,’ he say, ‘you done got yo’ two wishes. 
Dem dar trails goin’ to hinder you from runnin’. 
Dey ain’t no critter in de Big Woods so slow 
but what hit could ketch you ; dey ain’t no var- 
mint drag hits foot so slow dat you could ketch 
hit. True, dem big flat tails bound to keep yo’ 
balance for you; dem fine fur coats gwine make 
[ i47 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

you warm in de winter. But I bound ye 
humans’ll find out about dese here coats, an’ 
chase you off de face of de earth for to git yo’ 
hides.’ 

“An’ you know dat’s true, honey chillen. De 
beaver got to keep wid his kind, an’ burrow in 
the mud, ’caze he cain’t run. Also, he ’bliged 
to eat trees dat’ll hold still whilst he’s eatin’, 
becaze he couldn’t ketch a fishworm nor a catty- 
piller or snail if it had a mind to git ’way from 
him. An’ all de hunters prouder to git a beaver 
hide dan any; till now dey ain’t sca’cely a beaver 
left to tell de tale.” 


[ 148 ] 


XXIV 

WHEN THE CAT AND DOG KEPT HOUSE 



HERE! Hi — look there! I wish he 


would jump on him! We’re goin’ to 


Jl have a fight — we’re goin’ to have a fight! 
Oh, pshaw! Tom’s gone up a tree!” 

Pate Randolph turned in disappointment to 
the little group his shouts had gathered. 

“Well, I’m glad,” said Patty, relieved. “I 
don’t see why Snowball and Tom won’t be 
friends and take their dinner together. I’ve 
tried and tried to make them ; I give them plenty 
for both, but they just will quarrel — I wonder 
why. What do you think is the reason, 
Meriky?” 

“Dey’s studyin’ ’bout de time when dey used 
to keep house togedder,” America said promptly. 
“Dey ain’t never settle de big fuss dey broke up 
in — ain’t never settle it till yit. Look at Tom 
up dar, makin’ faces down at Snow, darin’ him. 


[ i49 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


Watch Snow barkin’ hisself to pieces talkin’ 
back.” And the black girl laughed immoder- 
ately. 

The Spitz on the ground and the gray cat in 
the tree continued to exchange defiances. 

“Come on and tell us the story, Meriky,” 
urged Patty. “Tom and Snow never do really 
hurt each other; let’s go sit by the spring-branch 
and let them fuss it out.” 

So the little group took its way to that famil- 
iar and dear playground where America had 
told them so many stories, and where she now 
related the history of the domestic venture of the 
dog and cat. 

“Long time ago de dog an’ de cat got in de 
notion to keep house togedder,” she began. 
“Mr. Dog aim to do outside chores an’ fetch 
home de provisions, an’ Mr. Cat give it out dat 
he a monstrous fine cook an’ a all-killin’ hand 
at housework. Mr. Dog stand up to his part of 
de bargain fa’rly well. Choppin’ de wood, 
totin’ de water from de spring-branch an’ raid- 
in’ an’ foragin’ ’bout in de Big Woods for what 
dey gwine to eat. He shore work like a dog 
[150] 


WHEN THE CAT AND DOG KEPT HOUSE 


and dey tells me dat’s whar dat sayin’ first come 
in. But Mr. Cat is a somebody what like his 
own pleasure. Hit suit his idees to sit in de 
sun an’ sing like a teakettle what’s about to b’ile; 
an’ ef de housework is done his song ain’t no 
sweeter dan ef it ain’t done. 

“He had a many a little way for to aggervate 
Mr. Dog; an’ de mainest of dese hyer ways was 
to pertend to be deef. When he want to hear, 
ain’t no mouse can cross de paff a quarter mile 
away, an’ him not know it — no, sir! When he 
ain't want to hear, Mr. Dog can holler hisself 
black in de face an’ de cat won’t so much as 
move a whisker or turn his haid. 

“One day Mr. Dog come home from de field 
mighty hongry. He ain’t see nothin’ in de 
house ’cep’ dirt an’ flies, an’ he holler out, he do, 
‘Whar’ is you at — you wuffless, triflin’, no ’count 
cat trash? I want my dinner! I want my din- 
ner! I WANT MY DINNER!’ 

“Now, Mr. Cat been layin’ ’crost de doorstone 
all mornin’, des’ breathin’ deep an’ singin’ slow, 
an’ feelin’ good to the tip-end of his claws an’ 
tail. He sorter half open’ his eyes, he do, when 

[151] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


he hyer de dog hollerin’ ’round like dat, an’ he 
try dat little trick o’ his dat ain’t never yit failed 
to make Mr. Dog so mad he couldn’t see straight. 
He let on to be deef. 

“ ‘What dat you say?’ he ax, a-curling one 
paw ’round behind his ear, like you see dese hyer 
deef folkses do. ‘I kinder think I hyer you 
namin’ somethin’ to me — leastwise, I see yo’ jaws 
open an’ shet,’ say de cat. ‘But my hyerin’ is 
mighty po’. Speak a little louder, podner.’ ” 

The children all laughed at America’s imita- 
tion of the cat with its paw behind its ear. 

“That’s exactly the way old Mr. Flournoy 
does,” commented Pate. 

“De dog brishle up along ae spine of his back, 
he so mad,” America resumed. “ ‘I want my 
dinner! I want my dinner! I WANT MY DIN- 
NER!’ he yelp out once mo’. ‘Ef you don’t get 
dat dinner — I will!’ he heller right close in de 
cat’s ear. 

“Dis sound right good to Mr. Cat. He 
willin’ fer anybody dat come along to do his 
work fer him, same as cats is dese days an’ times ; 
yit he ain’t done havin’ his fun out o’ Mr. Dog. 
[152] 


WHEN THE CAT AND DOG KEPT HOUSE 


“ ‘I sorter think I hyer de teenchy-weenchy 
end o’ what you say, dat time,’ he ’low monstrous 
easy, an’ stretchin’ hisself. ‘Say hit over, an’ say 
hit loud; mebber I’ll git de hang of hit.’ 

“ ‘All right,’ say de dog, mighty short an’ snap- 
tious. Den he roar, ‘Ef you don’t git de dinner 
fer me, I’ll git it fer myself, an’ what I gwine 
eat is — raw cat meat!’ 

“Wid dat he make a bounce fer Mr. Cat. 
But is Mr. Cat dar?” 

America nearly closed her eyes, and shook her 
head from side to side. 

“Is Mr. Cat dar?” she continued to inquire. 
“Did Snowball git old Tom? I boun’ ye Mr. 
Cat ain’t stay fer his deefness. Ah, law, no — 
he ain’t deef in de foots — des’ deef in de dispo- 
sition. By de time Mr. Dog light on de door- 
stone, Mr. Cat up a tree an’ lookin’ down at him, 
darin’ him. 

“ ‘I heerd a little o’ dat las’ what you spoke,’ 
he say mighty sof’ an’ sweet. ‘An’ I seen by yo’ 
motions dat you want de doorstone to set on yo’- 
se’f. So I done vacated,’ he say. ‘An’ mo’over, 
fren’ Dog,’ he go on, ‘ef you wants to have de 
[ i S3 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


house to yo’se’f — keep it. You an’ me never 
could agree on victuals, I reckon.’ 

“So de cat an’ de dog, as fur back as dat time, 
parts company, but de worst is dat dey ain’t 
never had dey fight. Ef once dey could have 
dey fuss out, look like dey might agree. But de 
minit Mr. Dog make a pass, Mr. Cat run up a 
tree — an’ dar you is! A fuss dat ain’t fussed is 
a mighty bad thing to keep in de fambly.” 


[i54] 


XXV 


THE HEN’S SHOES 

S OMEBODY gave baby Isabel a little ban- 
tam hen, and when it began to lay eggs 
the children were greatly delighted. 

“My biddy says just what the big hens do — 
only she can’t say it so loud,” Isabel exulted as 
the little bantam strutted forth cackling. 

“Is you knowin’ what de big hen does say, 
baby?” asked Aunt Viney, the poultry tender. 

“No, I don’t understand their language, you 
see, Aunt Viney ; but they all say the same thing,” 
Isabel replied. 

“Dat’s a true word,” chuckled the old black 
woman, shaking her fat sides with laughter and 
scouring the last of the cornmeal dough out of 
the pan she carried. “But I know what de hen 
say when she lay a egg. My mammy tell me 
dat, an’ her mammy tell her, I reckon. Mam- 
mies is been tellin’ little gals dat tale, dis long 

[155] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


time. I does p’intedly wonder dat nobody ever 
tell you, little Miss.” 

“Well, you tell us now,” urged Isabel. “I’ll 
run and call Pate and Patty back — they’ll want 
to hear it. I think we should all like very much 
to understand what hens say when they talk to 
each other.” 

“I dunno ez I can tell you all o’ dat,” said 
Aunt Viney, a little dubiously, when they 
reached her cabin and the three children settled 
down to hear the story. “I dest knows de one 
thing dat de hen say ’bout dat egg business. 
You see it was dis-er-way; hens is dest good for 
one thing on de top side o’ de earth, and dat is 
to lay eggs. Heap o’ people and varmints dat 
ain’t got no special use for de hen herself, likes 
de hen’s eggs. Old Mr. Hound loves to suck a 
egg, but you ax him is he friends to de hen fam- 
bly, and he’ll tell you no. De woman what 
keep de poultry, she need every egg she kin git, 
for to make cake and fry wid ham; but she ain’t 
got no special use for a hen, withouten hit is to 
wring her neck and put her in de pot. Weasel, 
dat’s skeered to ketch a big hen, will suck a egg. 

[ ! 5 6 ] 


THE HEN’S SHOES 


De rat love to steal ’em, and even little mices’ll 
tote ’em off an’ bust ’em ef dey git a chanct. 

“Well, betwix’ dis an’ dat, ol’ Miz. Hen’s eggs 
has got mo’ friends dan what she has. She am 
a mighty chilly somebody, specially in de foots ; 
and time winter move around she commence 
sayin’ she think she need shoes. Anybody look 
at Miz. Hen’s foot’ll know she ain’t fixed for to 
wear no shoes; but her foots was cold and shoes 
was what she honed for, so she give it to each 
an’ every dat if she could git some dat would fit 
her she was goin’ to trade for a pair. 

“Mr. Hound got de word, an’ he come a bow- 
in’ an’ a grinnin’ like you see him do sometimes, 
an’ he say, ‘Lay me a egg, please, ma’am, Miz. 
Hen, and I’ll git you a pair o’ shoes dat’ll fit you 
like a glove.’ 

“De foolish hen she lay him a egg, and he suck 
de meat out and come back next day wid a cou- 
ple o’ dry marrow bones — dey was big bones, 
and de hound could put his paws into de holler 
part — and he fling ’em down in front Miz. Hen. 

“De hen had another egg ready for him, an’ 
he lap dat up an’ start off. De hen tried to 
[ iS7 3 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


stick her foots in de bones, an’ her claws hung 
on de keen edges and cut her till she holler, 

“ ‘Here-I-been-a-layin’-eggs — all-de-days-o’- 
my-life — an’-I-can’t-git-a-shoe-for-to-fit-my- 
foot — foot — footee! footee! foot-eeee!’ holler de 
hen.” 

The children all laughed. 

“That sounds like the hens when they’ve laid 
an egg,” Pate said. “I believe it is what they 
say. Is that when they learned it?” 

The old negress nodded her head with its slat 
sunbonnet, folded and laid flat across like the 
cap of some Italian peasants. 

“Den, an’ long ’bout den,” she said; “ ’caze 
de hen don’t give up an idee so very easy. She 
ain’t got as much sense as once, but when she git 
to studyin’ on a thing she shore swing to it. 

“De woman come out to hunt eggs in de hen- 
house, and de hen let in an’ tell her dat if she’ll 
get shoes for her she gwine lay all de eggs dat 
anybody wants. When de hen tell dat tale, she 
say de woman promised her shoes. Maybe de 
woman did. But de next day when she come to 
hunt eggs an’ de ol’ hen done her best at layin’, 
[158] 


THE HEN’S SHOES 


and called in all her friends to help, de woman 
dest drive her out de hen-house and holler, 

“‘Shoo! Shoo!’ 

“But dat ain’t de kind o’ shoe de hen lookin’ 
for, an’ she out in the poultry yard a yellin’, 

“ ‘Here-I-been-layin’-eggs — all -de- days -o’- 
my-life — an’-I-can’t-git-a-shoe-for-to-fit-my- 
foot — foot — footee! footee! footee! ioot-eeee!’ 

“She holler dis over an’ over, till it git to be 
a sorter cry wid all de hens. Yit she ain’t got 
de sense to stop layin’ eggs — or to stop wantin’ 
shoes. Ef de rat or de weasel want a egg, all he 
got to do is to promise Miz. Hen a good-fittin’ 
pair o’ shoes, an’ she’ll lay it. True, she’ll hol- 
ler'about it atterwards, like some folks does, an’ 
name it dat de shoes ain’t fit her. But you heard 
’em all down to de yard, dest now, an’ if dey 
ain’t say de words I told you, what is dey say?” 

“Oh, fhey say that — they say that!” agreed all 
three children, anxious to keep on the good side 
of so competent a story-teller. 

There came a hail from the house; America 
wanted them. 

“Aunt Viney, won’t you tell us another tale 
[ i59 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


when we come down here again?” Patty pleaded. 

“I sho’ will, chillen,” the big black woman 
assented good-naturedly. “Run along now. 
But dest listen to dat little hen — she madder 
about her shoes dan most of ’em.” 

And after the laughing children came the 
shout, in bantam hen language, clear and shrill 
and excited, 

“Here-I-been-layin’-eggs — all-the-days-o’- 
my-life — and-I-can’t-get-a-shoe-for-to-fit-my- 
foot — foot — footee! footee! foot-eeee!” dying 
into silence with the last screech of, “Foot-ee! 
ioot-eeee!” 


[ 160 ] 


XXVI 


HOW MAMMY ’POSSUM GOT HER POCKET 
OSSUM was a favorite dish in the cabins 



at Broadlands plantation, though it sel- 


M. dom found its way to the table at the 
Big House. The three Randolph children were 
always intensely interested in the game which 
the ’possum hunters brought home; for more 
often than not these were alive, having shammed 
death and been picked up by the tail and carried 
in dangling from a stick. They are sorry little 
beasts, with dishonest, squinting eyes, close to- 
gether, and mournful, long, thin noses. 

“That one looks like a widow,” Patricia said, 
pointing to a ’possum in a slat pen at Uncle 
Bergen’s cabin. 

“I think she looks as if she had lost her chil- 
dren, besides her husband,” amended Pate, 
laughing. 


[161] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“Poor old Mammy ’Possum!” cooed little 
Isabel. 

“She ain’t lost none o’ her chillens,” asserted 
America, the nurse girl. “I knows in reason dat 
ain’t what grieve her, ’caze she got a pocket in 
her coat for to tote her chillen in.” 

When Mammy ’Possum had been taken from 
the pen and the pocket shown to the chil- 
dren, their questions brought the inevitable 
story. 

“You see, hit come ’bout dis hyer way,” the 
girl began. “Long ’bout Christmas time, 
Mammy ’Possum go to de store for to do her 
tradin’. She done take Sammy an’ Bob an’ Joe 
’Possum ’long wid her, ’caze she ain’t got no- 
body for to leave ’em wid. She tote a poke on 
her shoulder for to put her plunder in, an’ she 
give one hand to Sammy, an’ one to Bob, for to 
lead ’em. An’ Joe he whine an’ he fuss: 

“ ‘Oh, Mammy ’Possum, I ain’t got nothin’ 
for to hold to. I gwine git losted — I knows I 
is.’ 

“ ‘Ketch a-holt o’ Bobby’s hand,’ say Mammy 
’Possum. 


[ 162 ] 


HOW MAMMY ’POSSUM GOT HER POCKET 

“ ‘Bobby’s ol’ hand, hit’s so scra-a-atchy,’ little 
Joe say. 

“Little Joe was de baby, an’ raised a pet; he 
was sp’ilt — yas, law! he was a piece o’ sp’ilt 
meat, dat youngest ’possum. But he mammy, 
look like dey hain’t nothin’ she won’t put up 
with, or ondertake, for to please him. So what 
ye reckon she done now? Why, she up an’ put 
dat ’possum chile in de poke an’ pack him all de 
way to de storehouse! Den, when she git dar, 
what wid de storeman sayin’, ‘Lemme show you 
some dis hyer fine calikers’ an’, ‘Please, ma’am, 
Miz. ’Possum, taste'dis hyer cheese, an’ see don’t 
you want to buy a piece o’ hit,’ she lay dat poke 
down an’ fergit hit. Gentermans, she plumb 
lost de poke, an’ little Joe ’Possum in it! 

“De store was full o’ folks doin’ dey Christ- 
mas tradin’, an’ Mammy ’Possum commence to 
holler an’ run ’round ’mongst ’em, an’ ax ’em all 
is dey see her poke, or her little Joe ’Possum. 
She holler an’ she bounce, an’ she mighty nigh 
break up de meetin’ wid her carryin’ on. De 
storeman want dat sorter doin’s stopped. He 
tell her an’ he tell her to quit it, an’ hush her 
[ 163 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


fuss. But Lawsy! She ain’t studyin’ ’bout 
quittin’ — she ain’t got no notion o’ hushin’ her 
fuss, Mammy ’Possum ain’t. She jes’ holler de 
louder, an’ run round de faster, an’ bounce de 
higher, like she plumb crazy. So de storeman 
he up an’ sont for de sheriff — he did so. Mr. 
Porkypine was de sheriff in dem days, an’ he 
soon step in an’ take a hand. 

“ ‘Hey, you!’ he holler at Mammy ’Possum, 
whar she’s a-r’arin’ an’ bellerin’ an’ weavin’ 
around ’mongst de storeman’s plunder. ‘You 
hush dat fuss. I’se shamed on ye. Folks can 
hear ye plumb to de co’t house.’ 

“He grab a-holt her, an’ sorter lean de sharp 
ends o’ his quills inter her. 

“‘Ouch!’ she squeal. ‘Yas, sir, I’ll hush an’ 
be still!’ 

“ ‘Well, den,’ say Mr. Porkypine, ‘whar you 
leave dat young ’un?’ 

“ ‘Oh, I had ’im in dis hyer poke, please, sir; 
an’ de pesky string hit break, an’ de poke git 
lost; an’ now my dear little Josey somewhars, 
tied up in dat poke. He cain’t git out, an’ I 
cain’t find ’im; an’ he ’bleege to starve to death! 

[ 164] 


HOW MAMMY ’POSSUM GOT HER POCKET 

Oh, Josey — osey — woseyF An’ Mammy ’Pos- 
sum des cry like her heart plumb broke. 

“ ‘Well, set dar,’ say Sheriff Porkypine. ‘I 
don’t care how much ye snuffles, but I don’t want 
no mo’ weavin’ ’round ’mongst de customers an’ 
de plunder,’ he say. 

“‘Yas, sir,’ say Mammy ’Possum, a-sobbin’ 
an’ a-snubbin’. 

“But hit didn’t take Sheriff Porkypine long 
to find dat poke un’neath de counter; an’ Josey 
’Possum was all curled up fast asleep inside o’ 
hit. Or mebbe he was playin’ dead, like ’pos- 
sums does. 

“‘Now, dar yo’ poke an’ yo’ ’possum chile,’ 
he tell de lady. ‘An’ don’t let dis hyer thing 
happen ag’in. Ef I was you I’d have me a 
pocket sewed fast into de inside o’ my coat, for 
to carry my chillen in. I’s s’prised dat all de 
ladies don’t have sich.’ 

“ ‘Thanky, sir — thanky, kindly!’ say Mammy 
’Possum. ‘I’ll do dest like you say. You is a 
kind genterman — ef you is de sheriff, what takes 
folks to jail — an’ you knows a heap.’ 

“So dat’s how come it dat Mammy ’Possum 
[ 165 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


set up nights to sew a pocket an’ put hit in every 
coat she had; an’ she liked hit so well dat all 
Mammy ’Possums been doin’ de same to dis day 
an’ time.” 


[166] 


XXVII 

THE CAT THAT WANTED TO BE YOUNG 



HE children had just been laughing over 


a story which America, their nurse girl, 


m. had told them about how the duck tried 
to make a pair of shoes for the hen. 

“Yas, law!” said the black girl. “Dat ain’t 
de onliest time Mr. Duck sent for an’ couldn’t 
come.” 

“Tell us about the other times, Meriky,” 
pleaded little Pate Randolph. 

The nurse girl reflected. 

“I ’spect I might tell you ’bout de time Mr. 
Duck got ol’ Miz. Cat into sorrer. Hit come 
’bout dis-er-way. Mr. Duck, dest like I told 
you, mighty fond o’ passin’ bows an’ com-pli- 
ments to de ladies. Miz. Pussy Cat was mighty 
good friends wid him. An’ Mr. Duck always 
tellin’ her how fine hit was to swim in de water. 
Miz. Pussy Cat ain’t got no use for water — cold 


[ 167 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


water nor warm, nary one. Ef she want to wash 
her face, she dest lick her paw an’ wipe it off.” 

The little Randolphs giggled, because Amer- 
ica suited the action to the word, and gave a 
good imitation of a cat washing her face. 

“But as time pass on, Miz. Pussy Cat begin 
to feel herself gittin’ old. She got de rheuma- 
tiz; an’ she grunt, she did, when she git up or 
down, dest same like ol’ Aunt Aniky do.” 

A cat with the rheumatism was such a pleas- 
ing vanity, that the children were disposed to 
linger over it and question the matter a bit; but 
America hurried on: 

“ ‘Dat ’caze you don’t take no cold baffs an’ 
splunges, like I do,’ de duck say to ol’ Miz. Cat. 
‘A swim in dis good water, I dest bound, make 
you feel like a plumb new cat.’ 

“ Would hit make me young ag’in, an’ take 
dis misery outer my bones?’ ax Miz. Pussy Cat. 

“ ‘Hit would sho’ly do dat,’ de duck say. 

“Now ol’ Miz. Pussy Cat ain’t no half-an’- 
half somebody; when she start in for to do any- 
thing, she do as much as de next one — an’ a little 
mo’. She say to herself, she did, dat de duck 
[168] 



‘“What You Tryin’ to Do?’ Mr. Duck Ax. ‘You Tryin’ to 

Kill Yo’se’f?’ ” 


[ Page 169 ] 











. 

























































































































































































■ 





















THE CAT THAT WANTED TO BE YOUNG 


been swimmin’ in de cold water all he life, an’ 
dat she never been near de spring-branch when 
she could go some other way. She want to be 
made young ’g’in, an’ git shet o’ dat misery in 
her bones, all at one time an’ mighty quick. So, 
she ain’t never say nothin’ to Mr. Duck; but she 
crope down to de spring-branch one cold moon- 
shiny night, an’ in she went! 

“Seem like dat cold water ’bleege to be de 
death o’ her. But she shet her teef right hard, 
an’ dar she set till mornin’, de water up to her 
neck, an’ her dest a swivellin’ an’ shakin’. 

“By mornin’ dar was ice froze on de branch, 
an’ dat po’ cat couldn’t move her head. ’Bout 
dat time long come Mr. Duck to take he mornin’ 
swim. He come out to Miz. Pussy Cat an’ 
break de ice wid he bill, he did, an’ drug her to 
de bank. 

“ What you tryin’ to do?’ he ax, fergittin’ all 
’bout bein’ polite. ‘You tryin’ to kill yo’se’f ?’ 

“ ‘I was tryin’ to git made young, an’ git shet 
o’ de misery in my bones,’ say Miz. Pussy Cat. 
‘Ef dat business o’ cold water work like you say 
hit gwine work, I ort to be a kitten right now, 
[ 169 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


runnin’ ’round after my own tail. Oh, ow! 
Aw, my land! My bones is jest one misery! 
I cain’t sca’cely move! I’m e’en-a-most daid !’ 

“But all Mr. Duck would say, ‘Some folks 
ain’t got no judg -merit! ” 


[ 170] 


XXVIII 

THE VIRTUOUS BEAR 

D OWN at Uncle Bergen’s cabin, the In- 
dian half-breed, Daddy Laban, lin- 
gered. He was useful in doctoring an 
ailing horse or cow; and as an entertainer for 
the little Randolphs he continued in active de- 
mand. His stories were of a different flavor 
from those of the other negroes. 

“Tell you a tale? Another tale about a 
bear?” he asked, when America, the nurse girl, 
brought the children down to the quarters. 
“Well, I is hear one tale from my pappy, ’bout 
a bear dat was too good for dem wicked days 
an’ times. More’n dat, dis hyer bear was too 
good for de company he kep’. He git to train- 
in’ wid Mr. Fox, an’ Mr. Fox been a rascal 
sence red ha’r growed on him.” 

“Did the fox ever have any other color of 
hair, Daddy Laban?” asked little Pate anxiously. 

[ 171 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

The old Indian laughed, pushing back his 
oily ringlets with a copper-colored hand which 
looked very different indeed from the hands of 
the working negroes on Broadlands plantation. 
“Not as I knows on, little Marster,” he said. 
“An’ dat de same as to say dat all foxes been 
rascals from de beginnin’. 

“Dis hyer fox an’ dis hyer bear sot out for to 
travel in cold wedder. By rights, de bear ought 
to ’a’ been sleepin’ de winter th’oo in a holler 
tree; but he so greatly taken wid Mr. Fox dat 
he ’bleege to narrate ’round wid him — sleepin’- 
time or no sleepin’-time. Dat’s de way wid 
some folks — ain’t never ready to go to bed when 
dey’s doin’s afoot.” 

He glanced, with laughing hazel eyes, at the 
expectant faces of the three children, sure that 
this chance shaft would not strike amiss in a 
group of little folks. 

“Dey come to a fire dat some hunters done 
make, an’ de fox talk loud an’ long ’bout how 
comfortin’ hit war. ‘I wusht to my granny dat 
we could carry some dis truck wid us, same as 
de men people do,’ he say. 

[ 172 1 


THE VIRTUOUS BEAR 


“ ‘Huh!’ Mr. Bear grunt, ‘my coat’s dat thick 
dey ain’t no needs o’ fire for to warm me.’ 

“Den de fox show his paces, at dat. ‘Oh, but 
sech a noble-minded pusson as you is, ain’t gwine 
stop at what pleases hisself,’ de fox say. ‘A 
kind genterman, like you, is gwine putt hisself 
’bout greatly for to make things please his 
friends.’ 

“De bear never knowed tell dat time how 
good a man he wuz. Hit make him feel mighty 
fine to hear all dis talk. 

“ ‘Ax what you will, my friend,’ he say. 
‘What you ax, dat I gwine do.’ 

“ ‘Well, den, look at poor little me,’ say de 
fox. ‘See how I swivel an’ how I shakes when 
de cold wind blow over me. Hit bound to 
shorten my days.’ 

“ ‘Dat’s so — dat’s so!’ say de bear, mighty 
anxious like. 

“ ‘Sech a fine man as you, is gwine do some- 
thin’ to he’p me,’ whine Mr. Fox. ‘I wants to 
live out my days — I sho’ do dat; an’ ef you was 
to carry a fire ’pon yo’ back, an’ lef me warm my 
paws at hit, hit’d keep me from dest plumb 
[ i73 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


freezin’ ; an’ you’d show de world what a friend 
will do for a friend.’ 

“ ‘Is I all dat what you say?’ ax Mr. Bear. 
‘You reckon de whole world gwine hear ’bout 
it ef I so good ez to do dis what you axin’ of 
me to do?’ 

“ ‘Sho’ly — sho’ly,’ old man fox say. ‘I bound 
you dey gwine tell dey chillen ’bout hit for a 
hundred year.’ 

“ ‘Well,’ say Mr. Bear, ‘well’ — an’ he speak 
mighty slow — ‘you kin put de fire ’pon my back 
— but don’t put much, please, my friend. My 
coat mighty thick; but fire got a sharp toof. 
Don’t put much.’ 

“De fox put a chunk o’ fire ’pon Mr. Bear’s 
back. Den he strike out for de Big Woods. 
Torrec’ly de hunters come ’pon dey trail. De 
hounds bay — ‘Ah-ook! Ah-ook!’ Mr. Fox run. 
Mr. Bear run. De wind make de fire ’pon he 
back burn up fierce. 

“ ‘Oh, friend fox,’ he say, ‘I in torment — dest 
for you — in torment!’ 

“But Mr. Fox ain’t stay by to hear his talk. 
He done took his foot in his hand an’ put out 

[174] 


THE VIRTUOUS BEAR 

for de river, so he can take water an’ git ’way 
from dem hounds dat keep on sayin’, ‘Ah-ouk — 
Ah-ouk!’ 

“By dat, Mr. Bear all in a blaze on he back. 
He come to de water, an’ he lep’ in, but he ain’t 
no great swimmer at de best o’ times, an’ he 
done burnt so bad dat he drowned. 

“Mr. Fox fish him out on de fur side de river. 
Mr. Fox invite all his fambly to a big bobbycue 
o’ roast bear-meat. Dey all say de meat a little 
scorched, but greatly to dey taste. Dat’s how 
de bear git praise’ — dat’s all de praise he ever 
git. 

“An’ lemme tell you, honey chillen: dis tale 
show dat dey’s sech a thing as bein’ too good to 
mean folks ; an’ mo’ an’ furder dan dat, hit show 
dat dem what keeps bad company is bound to 
See trouble.” 


[ i75 ] 




XXIX 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT’S TOOTHACHE 
ATRICIA had the toothache. Yet she 



would listen to no suggestions of a den- 


Jl tist and forceps. She cried a good deal, 
and America found it necessary to tell her a good 
many stories by way of diverting her from the 
pain, and edging such hints of courage and en- 
durance as she could. 

These stories Pate and little Isabel enjoyed 
quite as much as the sufferer. One of the most 
successful stories of those related at this time 
was that concerning Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s 
toothache. 

“Hm — um — yas !” America remarked. 
“Sonny Bunny Rabbit dest like you is, honey; 
he got a toofache. Den, again, he ain’t like you, 
’caze he ready an’ willin’ to have dat dar bad 
toof pull’ out. He lay his paw in Mammy Rab- 
bit’s paw, an’ he say, ‘Lead me whar you will, 


1 177 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


mammy, jes’ so you leads me to somebody dat’ll 
pull out dis hyer toof !’ ” 

The other children snickered inconspicuously 
at this picture of Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s heroic 
readiness. But Patricia only looked mutinous, 
and America hurried on, 

“Dey go fust to de mule, an’ Mammy Rabbit 
say, ‘Please, suh, would you pull my little son’s 
toof? Hit hurt him scan’lous. Please, suh, 
would you pull hit?’ 

“‘Yassum. Yassum, Lady Rabbit,’ say de 
mule. ‘I ready an’ willin’ to pull yo’ son’s toof. 
Hit’s my business to pull. Fasten de trace to 
de rabbit boy’s toof, an’ I bound you I pull hit 
’fore he know anything ’tall ’bout de business.’ 

“Wid dat Sonny Bunny Rabbit he swivel an’ 
he shake. He look at de trace chain ; den he git 
mad. 

“ ‘I couldn’t git de teenchy end ob dem links 
in my mouf ef I was to try,’ he say to de mule. 
‘How big you think my mouf is? I don’t know 
how you gwine pull my toof.’ 

“ ‘Yo’ don’t know much, an’ dat’s a fac’,’ de 
mule say. ‘You don’t know nothin’, an’ you 
[i?8] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT’S TOOTHACHE 


don’t know dat right good. ’Pears to me you 
ain’t got de sense what you was born wid, 
a-axin’ me to pull somepin’ what you cain’t git 
de trace chain fastened onto. S’pose you-all 
take an’ go to Mr. Owl. De sayin’ is in de Big 
Woods dat he knows everything. Mebbe he 
can pull yo’ toof. G’long wid you, now, an’ 
don’t werry me no mo’ ’bout yo’ toofaches an’ 
sich truck. What I know ’bout yo’ foolish mouf 
an’ how big hit is, or how little? Hit big 
a-plenty to say a heap o’ foolishness. I boun’ 
ye.’ 

“Sonny Bunny Rabbit an’ Mammy Rabbit 
was greatly cast down at dis. Dey took an’ went 
to de owl, an’ de owl ain’t like to be disturbed 
in de daytime, so he mighty short wid ’em. 
Also, an’ likewise, he ain’t never pull nobody’s 
toof, an’ he know dat he ain’t no toof puller. 
Yit he ain’t gwine own dat dey’s anything he 
don’t know or cain’t do, so he set up an’ flare he 
big eyes at de rabbits, an’ rushle up he fedders, 
an’ holler: 

“Tull his toof — toof — toof? Pull dat rab- 
bit boy’s toof — toof — toof? ’Course I could 
[ 179 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


pull his toof! I could pull a toof — toof — toof 
any time I feel like hit!’ 

“De tears come in Sonny Bunny Rabbit’s eyes. 
He wipe ’em on de back ob his hand, an’ whim- 
per, ‘Please, good, big-eyed Mr. Owl, feel like 
hit, den — ’caze my jaw des’ a-jumpin’ awful 
bad!’ 

“Mr. Owl done tuck his head un’neath his 
wing an’ went off to sleep, an’ Mammy Rabbit 
have to wake him up ’fore dey could make him 
listen to what Sonny Bunny Rabbit say. Den, 
when he wake up, he cross, like folks is when 
dey nap been broke. 

“‘Huh?’ he holler. ‘What? Plague take it 
— cain’t you-all speak up? Toof? Toof? 
Toof? Err-r-uh!’ An’ he gape like you seen 
sleepy folks do. ‘Well, I don’t feel like hit 
now,’ he say; ‘not now, I don’t. Mebbe I gwine 
feel like hit to-morrer evenin’ ’long ’bout sun- 
down.’ 

“ ‘Is dey anything dat we-all could do, kind 
suh, foh to make you shore to feel like hit?’ 
Mammy Rabbit ax. 

“Now was de time foh Mr. Owl to show off. 

[ 180] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT’S TOOTHACHE 


“ ‘Umm!’ he say, mighty grand. ‘Ef dat rab- 
bit boy come here wearin’ a green coat, an’ yaller 
trousers, an’ wid a red cap on he haid, an’ blue 
shoes on he feet, an’ a spotted necktie — ef he 
come diked out dat-er-way, a-walkin’ cross- 
legged, an’ whistlin’ Sugar in de Gourd , why, 
den I might feel like hit; an’ ef I feel like hit — 
why, I’ll do hit, you know.’ 

“Wid dat Mammy Rabbit an’ Sonny Bunny 
Rabbit was ’bleege to be satisfied. All de way 
home de little rabbit keep axin’, What color 
coat was I to wear, Mammy? What kind ob 
hat dat Mr. Owl say? What de name ob dat 
chune I has to l’arn to whistle? Does you 
b’lieve I kin walk cross-legged, Mammy? Is 
you think you can find me a spotted necktie at de 
store?’ 

“Mammy Rabbit des’ sorter put ’im off; an’ 
when dey git home she fix up de best supper she 
know how, an’ say, ‘Never mind, my pore, 
’dieted little son. We git all dem contraptions, 
an’ put ’em on dest like he say, an’ do dest like 
he tell us, an’ Mr. Owl ’bleege to pull hit to- 
morrer at sundown.’ 

[181] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“But Lawd love yo’ soul! Right at dat min- 
ute whilst she’s a-speakin’, Sonny Bunny Rabbit 
lep’ up in de middle o’ de room tell he hit de 
ceilin’. He scatter de supper seb’m ways for 
Sunday, he did; an’ he cut de pigeon-wing right 
’fo’ Mammy Rabbit’s ’stonished eyes, an’ holler, 
“ ‘Oh, Mammy! Oh, Mammy! I study so 
hard ’bout what-all I gwine wear to Mr. Owl’s 
house, an’ what I gwine do, dat I plumb fo’git 
’bout my jumpin’ jaw! Dat toofache done gone, 
Mammy — hit plumb gone!’ ” 

“Why, that’s just like me!” broke in Patty, 
who had been nursing the ailing cheek in her 
hand. “ I got so interested in the tale that my 
tooth got well !” 

“Um-hm,” nodded America. “Dat’s why I 
done tell you de best tale I could — I dest b’lieved 
hit would cure yo’ toof.” 


[ 182 ] 


XXX 


MR. ’POSSUM’S OVERCOAT 
MERICA needed shoes, so she had been 



sent down to the shop of her father, 


1 Uncle Bergen, the plantation shoemaker. 
The three children went with her; and by way 
of keeping them quiet and amused while he fit- 
ted the leathery black foot of their nurse, Uncle 
Bergen began to talk. A couple of ’possums 
which Abe and Chad had just carried past on a 
pole furnished the theme. 

“You talkin’ ’bout de ’possum have sich a 
furry coat, an’ sich a slick tail,” he began. 
(Nobody had said a word of the sort, but it of- 
fered a good opening.) “You say hit mighty 
curious how come he hunch hisself all up in fur, 
an’ bunch hisself all up in fur, an’ leave his tail 
so bare. Well, now I’m hyer to tell you how 
come.” 

This was indeed good hearing; it was the most 


[183] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


joyful news; and the little white folks settled 
themselves in attitudes of expectancy, with every 
round eye fastened on Uncle Bergen’s black 
face. Patty softly clapped her hands, and little 
Pate murmured, “Oh, goody I” 

“Yes, suh,” the old shoemaker went on, “in 
de beginnin’ times de ’possum was slick all over, 
same ez his tail is dis day. Not one ha’r o’ fur 
did Mr. ’Possum have on his back; an’ when de 
winter come, he shook an’ he swivelled wid de 
cold. 

“He go to all de udder critters to beg dem 
loant him a over-de-coat. But every one dem 
varmints have need of his own coat, an’ ’fuse to 
loant hit to Mr. ’Possum. Dey tell me dat he 
put a writin’ in de newspaper fer to buy him a 
second-handed fur coat, tellin’ dat he’ll pay a 
good price. All dem folks in de Big Woods got 
des’ one fur coat, an’ hit dey wears night an’ day. 
Nobody got any over-de-coat to sell Mr. ’Pos- 
sum; an’ he gittin’ so cold he thunk he shore 
’bleege to swivel hisself to death. 

“ ’Bout dis time Mr. ’Possum git married. 
De lady ’possum what he wed was a mighty sly 
[ 184] 


MR. ’POSSUM’S OVERCOAT 


somebody. ‘Ef you cain’t borrow, an’ you cain’t 
buy, I bound you I kin tell you how to steal a 
over-de-coat,’ she say to her husband. 

“Wid dat, dey lay dey heads togedder an’ 
make ’em up a plan. De next business dey done 
was to go an’ visit Mr. Rabbit, ’caze Mr. Rabbit 
got a fine, thick, bushy coat. Mr. ’Possum ain’t 
seein’ what he gwine do next when he found dat 
Mr. and Miz. Rabbit keep dey fur coats on in 
de house. Miz. ’Possum give him de wink to 
neber mind — she got a plan to fix dat. 

“ ‘Oh, Miz. Rabbit,’ she say, ‘can you make 
egg-nog?’ 

“ ‘No,’ say Miz. Rabbit, ‘I never heard on 
sich.’ 

“ ‘Uh-huh!’ say de lady ’possum. ‘Well, den, 
I’ll teach you a trick what you won’t never fer- 
git. I brung all de truck to make a big bowl o’ 
egg-nog. We’ll make hit, an’ we’ll drink hit; 
an’ den we’ll have a dance.’ ” 

Uncle Bergen looked up from the leather that 
he was shaping into shoes for his daughter. 

“You Meriky, hit take mighty nigh a whole 
hide to go over yo’ foot,” he said reproachfully. 

[185] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“An’ den, de laig come right squash down in de 
middle, so’s I got to make a sort o’ toes at both 
ends.” 

America looked at his protruding heels, mark 
of her race. 

“Dey jest like yo’ own, pappy,” she giggled. 

“Urr-umm!” growled the old man. “Well, 
dis ain’t tellin’ ’bout Mr. ’Possum’s over-de-coat. 
De lady ’Possum she make a big bowl o’ egg-nog 
— mighty good egg-nog. But Mr. ’Possum an’ 
his wife don’t drink much of hit, dey don’t, ’caze 
dey tryin’ to git de Rabbits so het up dat dey lay 
off dey fur coats. 

“After de egg-nog all gone, Mr. ’Possum 
commence a pattin’, an’ ask Mr. Rabbit for to 
dance. Mr. Rabbit an’ his wife dest full o’ dat 
egg-nog, an’ dey step out on de floor an’ com- 
mence dancin’ like dey crazy. Mr. ’Possum pat 
an’ pat. Miz. ’Possum set back an’ roll up her 
eyes an’ fling up her hands an’ holler dat she 
never seen sech steps. 

“‘My land!’ she squall. ‘Des’ look at Miz. 
Rabbit do de double shuffle! Watch Mr. Rab- 
bit jump high an’ crack his heels togedder! I 
[186] 


MR. POSSUM’S OVERCOAT 


vow, I ain’t seed de equal of hit sence I fust went 
into s’iety.’ 

“De Rabbits look’ mighty pleased an’ foolish 
at dat, an’ dey jump an’ leap an’ cut de pigeon- 
wing. 

“‘O-o-oh! I so hot! I ’bleege ter take off 
my over-de-coat,’ say Mr. Rabbit, finely. 

“ ‘I ’bleege to lay off mine, too,’ say little Miz. 
Rabbit, a-puffin’ an’ a-blowin’ turrible. 

“When dem coats off, an’ lay on de bed, de 
’Possums bound to try ’em on. Mr. ’Possum 
put on Mr. Rabbit’s coat; Miz. ’Possum put on 
Miz. Rabbit’s coat. Den dey give each udder 
de wink, an’ jump th’oo de winder — an’ out dey 
put, fast ez dey kin lope, fer de thick bresh, an’ 
de tall timber, an’ de big rocks. 

“De Rabbit folks done drink so much egg- 
nog, an’ dance so much, dat dey couldn’t sca’cely 
put one foot before de t’other. Yit dey try to 
come up wid de ’Possums. But de ’Possums 
dumb a tree, an’ git clean ’way wid dem fur 
coats on dey backs. Den dey seen whar dey 
make a little miscalkerlation. De rabbits ain’t 
got no tail, sca’cely. De ’possum got a long, 
[187] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


slick tail. Now you seen dem ’possums what 
Abe and Chad dest carry past here? Dey fur 
over-de-coats wasn’t cut fer ’em. Dey wouldn’t 
kyivver dem long, slick, bare tails at all. Any- 
body kin see dat dey still wearin’ dem coats what 
dey done stoled!” 


[ 1 88 ] 


XXXI 


THE CRANE’S FINE FLUTE 

I DONE tell you,” said America, “ ’bout how 
proud all de crane fambly is ’bout dey 
dancin’. Dey make you s’pose dat dere is 
nobody but de crane could take de steps. Dey 
always givin’ dances, an’ gwine to dances; an’ 
yit dat ain’t enough for Mr. Long-Legger 
Crane. He done see a man, once, play on de 
flute, like yo’ Cousin Marse Bolivar, an’ nothin’ 
ain’t gwine please him tell he l’arns to play on 
de flute hisself.” 

The three children laughed out joyously at 
the thought of a crane playing the flute. 

“Why, he couldn’t get his mouth up to it!” 
cried little Pate. 

“Dat dest de trouble dat he done see ahead o’ 
him, little Marse,” America said solemnly. 

“And, then, where would he get a flute?” 
asked Patricia. 


[ 189 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

“Dat bearin’ down on Mr. Crane’s mind, 
also,” the nurse girl agreed. 

“Maybe some of the animals in the Big 
Woods could give him some help, America. 
Did he ask them?” put in baby Isabel. 

“Dat perzactly what he done, Miss Baby,” 
returned the narrator. “He go from one to 
’nother of all dem critters an’ varmints in de 
Big Woods, from de drizzly bear down. Dem 
what was him friends told him to trust his laigs, 
an’ not try to l’arn to make music, ’caze no crane 
ain’t made music sence cranes had fedders. 

“But dey was one critter what give de crane 
advice, an’ he ain’t never been no friend to dem 
dat he could eat — an’ dat’s Mr. Fox. Mr. Fox 
say, 

“ ‘Oh, sho’ly, sho’ly, Mr. Crane; you bound 
to play fine chunes. Anybody dat kin dance — 
a pusson dat kin shake a foot like you kin — 
bound to play fine dancin’ music.’ 

“ ‘But I ain’t got no flute fer to play ’pon,’ 
say de crane. 

“ ‘Ain’t you?’ ax Mr. Fox. ‘Aw, yas, you is 
got a flute. You is brung him wid you.’ 

[ ! 9 °] 


THE CRANE’S FINE FLUTE 

“He tap Mr. Crane ’pon de long bill, an’ he 
say, ‘Time I git some holes punched in dis hyer 
contraption, you gwine have de finest flute in 
de Big Woods. You gwine make all de other 
cranes right crazy, dey dat jealous.’ 

“He could mighty easy have de best flute in 
de Big Woods,” America chuckled. “For he 
gwine have de onliest flute dat ever been dar. 
But Mr. Crane ain’t study ’bout dat. He a 
great somebody for passin’ bows an’ compli- 
ments wid de ladies, an’ he studyin’ ’bout how 
dey gwine take on over him when he kin play 
sweet music. He git up he plans, he did 
dat. 

“ ‘I gwine play it at de dances,’ he holler. ‘I 
gwine be de king o’ de cranes — huh, I gwine 
be de king o’ de Big Woods!’ ” 

“He better not let the grizzly bear hear him 
say that,” remarked Pate. For in all America’s 
stories the grizzly bear figured as king of the 
Big Woods. 

“Dat’s so, little Marse. But de crane so crazy 
dat he ain’t think ’bout no sech. He send out 
de runners to run an’ de crawlers to crawl an’ 

[ 191 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


de fliers to fly, an’ ’vite all de critters to a ball 
whar he gwine play de music. 

“De night come, an’ de time come, an’ de 
critters all come; an’ by dat time Mr. Fox done 
got de holes punch th’oo Mr. Crane’s bill. Hit 
hurt monstrous bad; but Mr. Crane stand hit 
all, for de sake o’ makin’ sweet music to charm 
de ladies. 

“Dey all stan’ ’round de aidge o’ de ballroom 
— dat’s a place like you find in de woods, whar 
ain’t no trees, an’ de grass done wore off. By- 
en-by, out come Mr. Crane, at de top o’ de ball- 
room. Dar he take he stan’. He blow an’ he 
blow; but he ain’t make no more noise dan wind 
th’oo a keyhole. Huh! He ain’t sca’cely make 
so much ez a good strong wind. 

“ Tut yo’ claw to hit,’ Mr. Fox holler, ‘dest 
like de humans does.’ 

“Den Mr. Crane recomember how de man 
done what he see play ’pon de flute. He jerk 
up he claw, an’ he lay it to de side o’ he nose, 
dest so.” 

But, alas, America’s nose was something short 
of a crane’s beak! And the Randolph children 
[ * 9 2 ] 



“He Huff an’ He Puff, an’ yit He Ain’t Fetch no Music 


[ Page 1 93] 





THE CRANE’S FINE FLUTE 


rolled over in ecstasies of mirth to see her at- 
tempt the illustration. 

“He huff an’ he puff tell he most bust hisself. 
He jerk up first one claw an’ den t’other, tell he 
most fell down ; an’ yit he ain’t fetch no music,” 
the nurse girl went on. “Den he think he’ll 
holler his old holler — hit ain’t very fine, but hit’s 
better dan no noise. He try dat an’ he find dat 
his voice plumb gone. 

“ ‘I mint!’ say Mr. Crane — an’ he say it in a 
kind o’ whisper. 

“ ‘Ruint you is,’ say de fine young crane lady 
dat he been ’spectin’ to marry. ‘Dat what come 
o’ tryin’ to git out o’ bein’ a crane,’ she say, 
mighty uppity an’ snapshus. 

“ ‘I’ll have ’em mended,’ say Mr. Crane, 
mighty humble. 

“ ‘Not on my account,’ say de young lady, 
walkin’ off wid anodder crane. ‘Come on, less 
us go elsewhar an’ have us a dance.’ An’ dey 
all lef’ him — all but Mr. Fox. 

“Soon as Mr. Fox see dat de crane alone — 
plumb alone, an’ fixed so he couldn’t holler — he 
jump ’pon him an’ eat him up. 

[ *93 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“An’ dat’s what he git, honey chillens — dat’s 
dest what ol’ Mr. Crane git for not bein’ willin’ 
to be de best kind o’ crane, an’ yit not bein’ able 
to be any sort o’ other critter. Dest like a nigger 
dat git white folk’s notions, an’ try to git above 
his color. Yo’ ma will tell you dat dey ain’t 
nevah no good come out o’ sich niggers.” 


[ i94] 


XXXII 


THE FROGS’ CONTEST 

W HEN Pate’s Uncle Billy came down 
from the University of Virginia to 
spend his vacation on Broadlands 
plantation, and set to work teaching his young 
nephew, the boy had often to go to his sister 
Patricia, the nurse girl America, or even Aunt 
Jinsey, the head nurse who took care of the baby, 
for comfort and a little chance to complain. 

“Uncle Billy he thinks I can just do anything 
same as a grown man,” he would object. 
“Wasn’t he a little boy himself one time and had 
to learn things?” 

“Hit des like lil’ ol’ Weenchy Frog and his 
uncle, Mistah Bull Frog,” chuckled America. 

“If there’s a tale about it I want to hear it,” 
grumbled Pate, stretching himself out flat on his 
back on the Bermuda grass and shutting his eyes. 
“I think you might tell me a whole lot of tales 
[ i95 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


this morning; I’ve had an awful time with 
Uncle Billy. Go on, Meriky.” 

“Yes, do, please, Meriky,” Patricia put in her 
vote, and Baby Isabel chimed after, 

“Tell tale— Meriky.” 

They were down by the creek that everybody 
on Broadlands plantation called a spring- 
branch ; they had settled themselves under a big 
live-oak where the stream made a deep, clear 
pool with a foot-log crossing just below. The 
summer day was full of drowsy sounds. Amer- 
ica took up her story without much urging. 

“Hit war dis-a-way,” she said. “Weenchy 
Frog, he was a right smawt splinter of a boy 
frog, gittin’ old enough to feel like he knowed 
mo’n anybody. His folks dey sont him to school 
to his uncle, Mistah Bull Frog, an’ Mistah Bull 
Frog felt ’bleege to fetch out whatever sense dat 
dar Weenchy boy frog had in him.” 

“What’s a frog school like?” Pate asked, very 
sure that it was much nicer than a boy school 
anyway. 

“Des’ ’bout like dis hyer place we’re a-settin’ 
at,” explained America. “Mistah Bull Frog 
[ 196 ] 


THE FROGS’ CONTEST 


have a log, same as dat log down dar, only hit 
warn’t a foot-log for humans to walk over; hit 
des’ stuck out in de water a lil’ ways, an’ all de 
frog boys and gals sot on it for to learn dey les- 
sons.” 

“It was their bench,” suggested Patricia. 
“They didn’t have any desks, did they?” 

“What dey want of a dest?” inquired Amer- 
ica. “Frogs ain’t l’arnin’ how to write an’ 
figger.” 

“What did they learn?” asked Pate. 

“Dey larnt how to holler,” said America de- 
cidedly. “Dey larnt how to dive offen dat log 
head fust into deep water — kersplosh !” 

“I’d like that kind of a school,” Pate inter- 
rupted. “I wish Uncle Billy’d teach me to hol- 
ler and dive instead of — instead of — ” 

“You des’ ’bout like Weenchy Frog. He 
ain’t satisfied wid what his uncle, Mistah Bull 
Frog, teachin’ him. He kep’ an eye on de birds, 
an’ say he wish his uncle would teach him to fly 
— or anyhow to roost in a tree — an’ to sing. He 
say hollerin’ an’ divin’ offen logs was low — dat 
what lil’ ol’ Weenchy Frog say.” 

[ i97 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


“Well, the birds are higher up than the 
frogs,” agreed Patricia. 

“Uh-huh,” gurgled America, “so Weenchy 
Frog he tuck to spendin’ his time un’neath de 
trees — lookin’ up. Sometimes a sparrer dat 
chanced to be lonesome would take some notice 
of him — an’ den Weenchy Frog mighty nigh 
went out of he skin. He listen at de birds, an’ 
he got him a leaf or so an’ sot down dey chunes 
in a chune book, what he make for hisself. 
‘Teedle — deedle — teedle-dee!’ he go round sing- 
in’, tryin’ for all dat was in him to be a bird!” 

“I don’t blame him,” said Patricia. “I’d 
rather be a bird than a frog — wouldn’t you?” 

“I’d ruther be a frog when I was a frog,” said 
America. 

“Did this Weenchy Frog ever get to be a 
bird?” inquired Pate drowsily. 

“Now you’ axin’,” chuckled America delight- 
edly. “Wait an’ lemme tell you. Mistah Bull 
Frog he got so he cain’t sca’cely stand de looks 
an’ behaviors of dat lil’ Weenchy Frog. 
Weenchy Frog carried his chune book wherever 
[ 198 ] 


THE FROGS’ CONTEST 

he went. He got so fraid of de wattah, dat he 
pack an’ umbrel’ ’round wid ’im, too.” 

“Oh, a frog with an umbrella — a frog with an 
umbrella!” cried little Isabel and rolled over on 
the grass. 

“Dat’s de way Mistah Bull Frog took it — 
only he didn’t laugh — he got mad,” America 
went on. “He said dat never in all his bawn 
days, in de Big Woods, or out of it, did he ever 
hear tell of a frog dat packed an umbrel’. He 
done his best by Weenchy Frog, but he couldn’t 
larn him how to holler, an’ he couldn’t make 
him dive. When it come hollerin’ time 
Weenchy’d say his th’oat hurt him, an’ when it 
come time for divin’ off de log he’d tell ’em all 
he’d promised his maw not to get his clo’es wet. 
De last day of school come. All de frog mam- 
mys and de frog pappys dressed deyse’fs up in 
dey best Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clo’es an’ come 
and sot on de bank to hear dey young ’uns an’ 
see dey young ’uns. Weenchy’s paw and maw 
was right up front. Weenchy was at de end 
of de log — de foot of de class, but dat ain’t keep- 

[ 199 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


in’ dem from feelin’ mighty proud of him, an’ 
whisperin’ to each other to take notice what a 
high forehead he got.” 

“Oh, Meriky,” Patricia interrupted, “a frog 
hasn’t any forehead at all — his eyes are right in 
the top of his head!” 

“Ain’t I knowin’ dat?” laughed America. 
“But you reckon dat gwine keep any paw and 
maw from seein’ a high forehead on a lil’ ol’ 
frog boy? Paw Frog and Maw Frog couldn’t 
hardly stand waitin’ while all dem other frog 
boys hollered an’ dived. Mistah Bull Frog 
he’d call up the head boy — an’ the head boy 
could go mighty near like Mistah Bull Frog 
hisself — ‘Ker -chung! Ker-chung!’ Den he had 
dat head boy dive. De head boy went up 
in the air till hit look like he gwine fly, den he 
come down in de wattah, ker-splosh, an’ de foam 
flew. Ev’ybody say he done splendid; but 
Weenchy Frog des wipe de splatters ofifen his 
pretty green and white trousies, an’ look like he 
despise sich doin’s. Paw Frog and Maw Frog 
sot in to whisper again, an’ say, ‘Des’ wait till 
Weench show ’em — des’ wait.’ ” 

[ 200 ] 


THE FROGS’ CONTEST 


The June sky swam with heat. All around 
the horizon there had lain since morning those 
big white clouds that old-fashioned people call 
thunderheads, and now in the south there came 
a line of gray, and out of the middle of that line 
a cool breath stole across the fields and touched 
the moist, warm faces of the children very pleas- 
antly. America noted it and smiled, started to 
speak of it, checked herself and went on with 
her story. 

“Mistah Bull Frog went down de line. Each 
lil’ frog boy done de best he knowed how. 
Some done well — some done better. I reckon 
some done po’ — an’ some worse; but all dey 
mammys an’ pappys was satisfied an’ pleased, 
tell hit come down to de end of de line, an’ 
Weenchy Frog was de onliest one left to show 
off. He sot all by hisself in de middle of de log, 
’caze dem other frog boys had dived off an’ 
swum to de bank. Mistah Bull Frog stand up 
in front o’ Weenchy an’ say to him, ‘Do like I 
do. Do like I do.’ Den Mistah Bull Frog 
swell out he th’oat, tell hit look like hit gwine 
bust, an’ den he say, ‘Ker -chung! Ktv-plung!’ 

[ 201 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


Weenchy Frog look’ at him kinder scawnful- 
like, an’ den he pull out dat chune book what he 
got un’neath he arm, an’ he clar’ he th’oat an’ 
say, ‘Teedle — deedle — teedle-dee!’ 

“I reckon dere never was no frog on dis earth 
as mad as Mistah Bull Frog when Weenchy 
answer him back like dat. Paw Frog and Maw 
Frog ain’t whisperin’ any more. Dey shamed 
to look each other in de face. 

“ What kind o’ noise you call dat?’ Mistah 
Bull Frog ax. 

“ ‘Dat de way de birds sing,’ say Weenchy 
Frog, mighty pleased wid hisself. 

“ ‘Birds!’ Mistah Bull Frog like to have fell 
off de log hollerin’ birds at Weenchy. ‘Is you 
a bird — or is you a frog?’ he say. 

“ ‘I reckon I’s a frog,’ say po’ lil’ ol’ Weenchy, 
‘but I’d ruther be a bird.’ 

“ ‘Oh, you would — would you?’ say Mr. Bull 
Frog. ‘Well you’ a frog — an’ a frog you’ll stay. 
Hollerin’ an’ divin’ is what you’ got to larn. 
Ain’t no use o’ your tryin’ to fly an’ sing. Dive!’ 
he say, des’ like dat. ‘Dive!’ 

“‘I don’t want to dive,’ say Weenchy Frog. 

[ 202 ] 


THE FROGS’ CONTEST 

Ts ’fraid I’ll git my clo’es wet! I’s ’fraid I’ll 
git in de mud! I wants to fly — I wants to fly! 
I wants to live in de trees — an’ I wants to sing!’ 

“Wid dat he lep’ right off the log, up in de 
air. He went higher dan de head boy frog ever 
dreamed o’ goin’. Look like he come mighty 
nigh flyin’ — an’ he lit in a tree. Yes he did — he 
lit in a tree like dis hyer,” she glanced up at the 
live oak above them, “an’ dar he sot an’ say to 
Paw Frog an’ Maw Frog an’ Mistah Bull Frog 
an’ all the boy frogs, ‘Teedle — deedle — teedle- 
dee!’ Hit sound most like a bird.” 

America’s voice dropped, almost as though 
she expected an answer. Shrill and sweet from 
the bough above them came a whistling call that 
the children knew well — the storm wind from 
that gray cloud in the south had waked it. 

“Oh, a tree-frog,” cried Pate. “Weenchy 
Frog’s a tree-frog!” 

“You call him dat?” said America in pre- 
tended surprise. “Well, have yo’ name for him. 
He lives in de tree, an’ he sounds like a bird, an’ 
he holds hisself above de low-ground frog- 
trash.” 


[ 203 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


Again came the trill from the tree branches, 
clear, like fairy sleigh-bells. 

“I like to hear them,” said Patricia. “I think 
Weenchy Frog is nicer than the ones that live 
in the mud. What did his father and mother 
say? Weren’t they proud of him?” 

“Say,” echoed America, tossing her head. 
“Dey said des’ what pappys and mammys always 
says ’bout nice little boys wid high foreheads. 
What you reckon dey say? Dey braggin’ on 
Weenchy till yit. But dey ain’t got Mr. Bull 
Frog to uphold ’em. He say Weenchy ain’t no 
frog an’ he ain’t no bird — but he’s a plumb, 
scan’lous disgrace.” 

“Anyhow tree-frogs are smarter than common 
frogs,” Pate maintained. “They know when it’s 
going to rain. Uncle Bergen said so.” 

“Dat dey does,” agreed America, beginning to 
gather up sunbonnets, playthings and books. 
“Dat lil’ ol’ Weenchy Frog say des’ plain as 
folks, dat hit gwine rain. We gotter git in de 
house, honies. He may be above his kin what 
live in de wattah, but he ain’t ack like a genter- 
man to-day — eavesdroppin’ me when I was 

[ 204] 


THE FROGS’ CONTEST 


a-tellin’ you-all ’bout him, settin’ up dar listenin’ 
to ev’y word I say, an’ den laughin’ at me. 
Lis’en to him holler — ‘Teedle-deedle! Teedle- 
deedle ! Teedle-deedle-dee !’ ” 


[ 205 ] 



















XXXIII 


THE SHADOW PUPPY 

S NOWBALL, the little white Spitzdog, 
was rolling over and over in ecstasy upon 
the sunny lawn at Broadlands plantation. 
“What’s he playing with, Meriky?” Pate 
asked. 

“Dat dog playin’ wid he shadder,” answered 
the nurse girl. “Puppy dogs always does dat 
when dey lonesome for somebody to play wid.” 

“How did they find out about it?” little Isabel 
wanted to know. 

“Find out what, Miss Baby?” asked the nurse 
girl. “Find out dat dey got a shadder what fol- 
ler ’em ’bout everywheres?” 

The little girl nodded, and America settled 
herself to tell the tale of the first puppy who 
found his shadow. 

“Hit was a long time ago,” she began. “Dey 
[ 207 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 


tuck an’ tuck a puppy away from he mammy an’ 
give him to a little boy. Den de boy he went 
off to see he granny, an’ dey wa’n’t a soul to play 
wid dat little dog. 

“De folks whar he stay at give him plenty o’ 
victuals — but dat ain’t all he want; an’ he so 
lonesome he study ’bout runnin’ ’way an’ tryin’ 
to git back to he mammy. Den one fine sun- 
shiny day de folks turn de little dog out in de 
yard. He run ’bout for a while, an’ den he 
notice a little black puppy dat keep runnin’ right 
beside him, an’ he never speak, an’ never th’ow 
up de gravel wid he foots, an’ never make a print 
in de mud wid he paw — but dar he am. 

“ ‘What yo’ name?’ ax’ de little dog. But de 
black puppy ain’t say one word. 

“ ‘Whar you come from?’ ax de little dog. 
But de black puppy ain’t answer. 

“ ‘I gwine run ’way an’ leave you, widout you 
speak,’ say de little dog. De black puppy ain’t 
make no sound. 

“By dat de little dog put out an’ run dest like 
Snowball been doin’. An’ when he got to de 
end o’ his runnin’ — dar was de black puppy, hit 
1 208 ] 


THE SHADOW PUPPY 


front foot by he front foot, hit head by he head 
— an’ neither on ’em won de race. 

“De little dog commence to love dat black 
piippy, ’caze he want somebody to play wid so 
mighty bad. 

“ ‘Let’s dig for bones,’ he say. De little black 
puppy come ’long an’ do like he diggin’, an’ dey 
had a heap o’ fun. 

“But when dey find ’em a bone, an’ de dog 
put he nose down to hit, de black puppy put he 
nose down dest de same. De dog growl. De 
black puppy ain’t move. De dog put he paw on 
de bone. De black puppy put he paw on de 
bone. De dog growl once mo’ — but de little 
black puppy ain’t say nothin’. An’ den de dog 
eat up all de meat on dat bone, an’ find no trou- 
ble from de black puppy. 

“Well, dey play all day, an’ dey see a heap o’ 
fun togedder, an’ den come night; de little dog 
cain’t see de little black puppy no mo’, an’ he 
crope in de house an’ nap off. He mighty sorry 
dat de black puppy don’t come in de house — but 
hit don’t, ’caze de people never had no candles. 

“Each day an’ every day de little dog play wid 

1 209 ] 


SONNY BUNNY RABBIT 

de black puppy ’cept when hit rain an’ de sun 
hide hisself. Den ’long come a fine moonshiny 
night, an’ de little dog chance to be out — an’ dar 
an’ den he find de black puppy! 

“Whoo-ee! but he talk to dat black puppy. 
Yo’ pa an’ ma git mighty pestered when de dogs 
howl o’ a moonshiny night; but you chillen is 
gwine know, after dis, dat dey dest a-talkin’ to 
de black puppy what come to ’em in de moon- 
shine.” 


THE END 


[ 210 ] 







































































































































































































































































































































































































